Master of None
by sendintheclowns
Summary: Sam had been pretty sure his day couldn’t get any worse. He’d figured wrong. Co-written with Faye Dartmouth for Authoressnebula who is simply awesome.
1. Chapter 1

Master of None

Summary: Sam had been pretty sure his day couldn't get any worse. He'd figured wrong.

Disclaimer: Not ours.

A/N (Faye): This fic is written for Authoressnebula. I've always loved nebula's enthusiasm (and her love of limp!Sam!) so when we found out there was a plan to do something special for her, I was all over it. Much thanks to sendintheclowns, who is so much fun to write with. She is responsible for a large part of my participation at all these days--and she puts up with a LOT from me. I appreciate her not just as a fellow fan but as a very, very good friend. Also, thanks to our three betas Floralia, blueeyeddemonliz , and gidgetgal9. Also, personal thanks to my favorite lurker (who needs a username!) who gave this a once-over as well and assured me with her squee. Anyway, this one's for your, Nebula! You deserve it, for all the fic you've entertained others with, and just for being YOU.

A/N – Sendintheklowns: I've been in a funk when it comes to writing lately but the mega talented and persuasive Faye kindly pulled me out of it by talking me into co-writing a story with her for Authoressnebula whose writing I absolutely adore (All Locked In is perfect in my book). Floralia, BlueEyedDemonLiz and Gidgetgal9 consented to beta for us and they did a wonderful job (scum-bug anyone?). I'm very lucky to be surrounded by such generous, talented people.

-0-

Sam had been pretty sure his day couldn't get any worse. After all, they were about to move--again. Which made their dad stonier and more difficult to talk to than usual, and it just made Dean hyper enough to make it impossible for Sam to focus on anything except what Dean wanted. And on top of that, they were picking up and leaving before Sam had a chance to finish out the term in school, which would make his transfer even more difficult when they finally settled again.

So yeah, this day had pretty much sucked from the start. Not much worse than all that, he'd figured.

He'd figured wrong.

Lying on his back, he could feel the dull throb of blood pulsing in his temples. He cracked his eyes open to find Dean, eyes wide and panicky, hovering over him, and then he remembered.

Dean had wanted to try some exotic submission hold on him before they left for their next gig in the morning. Sam had declined, his body had endured enough abuse for one day, but then his older brother had gotten surly. Dean, who never asked for much, wanted to do this so to keep the peace he'd finally agreed.

Everything had been fine until Dean applied pressure to Sam's neck; the same neck that was bruised because some hulking alpha jock at school had tried to shove him into the locker…by curling his hand around Sam's throat and squeezing. Another moment in his less than stellar day.

So when Dean had changed the position of his arm and it had scraped over his tender neck, he'd gasped. Dizziness left him reeling in Dean's arms and the next thing he knew, he was on the grass, blinking up at his brother.

His insanely protective, older brother who was about to flip out on him.

He knew the signs and symptoms and could forecast the gathering eruption. After all, he'd had sixteen years to learn everything there was to know about his brother. In fact, he could predict the upcoming tirade nearly verbatim in his mind. Sam couldn't take care of himself because he was too young, short, weak, naïve…fill in the blank. Sam needed a keeper, jail warden, full-time baby sitter, all of the above and then some to keep him safe.

And worst of all, Dean was going to dog Sam's every step for the next week to try to fulfill all those crazy responsibilities.

It wasn't that Sam wasn't grateful to have a brother like Dean; his older sibling was pretty much his world since their dad was gone so much. Dean always made sure Sam had enough to eat, got to school, didn't get bullied, practiced his training moves. And it was nice to have someone there, someone who remembered that he existed at least--a familiar face from place to place and hunt to hunt.

Sam had always had to deal with more bad than good, so he could definitely appreciate Dean's finer qualities even in the face of his more frustrating ones and the minor annoyances that only brothers could truly appreciate. After all, in addition to being over-protective and insanely obsessed with submission maneuvers, Dean also had poor taste in clothes--well, poor taste in clothes that Sam could steal, anyway.

A brutal growth spurt had left his jeans too short, unless the flood look was returning, so Sam had lifted a pair of Dean's jeans for his own use. Soft and broken in, they were way too loose around the waist but fit him in the legs. But his belt kept them from falling and he hoped Dean would never catch on; his brother was territorial when it came to his clothes. And playing his music. And driving the car.

But Dean was still awesome.

The thing was, Sam wasn't a little kid anymore. He could look out for himself. And that's why passing out like some girl and waking up to his looming, freaked out brother was so frustrating; it was hard to make an argument for being independent when you'd just blacked out.

So yeah. This day was about to get a whole lot worse and Sam was pretty sure there was nothing he could do about it.

-0-

It wasn't supposed to happen like this; the book had been very explicit about how to do the move and having your victim pass out wasn't the intended result. Preventing them from moving was the goal, not choking them out.

Especially when the victim was Sammy.

They were leaving tomorrow morning, which meant everything had to be packed up, and it was Dean's job to make sure it got done. But throwing crap in a bag was easy, and they had all night, and Dean had been cramped up in the house all day by himself. He needed to expend some energy, have some fun. So before he and Sammy started in on the task of packing, he just wanted to try out the Abdominal Stretch with Claw. He'd read about it in the book his dad had given him and he was excited to use it; he was totally into submission moves and who better to practice on then Sammy?

And who didn't want to know a move that could be called _the claw_?

Only Sammy was quiet, more quiet than usual. He'd slunk into the house and headed straight for his room. Dean had cajoled and whined and was about ready to yank his shorter, lighter brother outside without his consent when Sam had finally capitulated.

Dean mentally reviewed the move. _The attacker stands behind the victim, reaching around the victim's body with one leg so it is around the victim's side and between their legs, hooking the leg on the same side as the attacker's leg. The attacker wraps their arm which is closest to the victim's head around the victim's head or arm which is up. The attacker then uses their free hand to grab the victim's side/stomach and apply pressure. The victim should be forced to bend slightly to the side._

He quickly realized his mistake; he'd accidentally executed the straight forward Abdominal Stretch and put pressure on Sam's neck, pulling him upwards, instead of wrapping his arms around Sam's head and raised arm. A rookie mistake, one that would annoy Sam, but no harm, no foul. So why the hell was Sam imitating a rag doll all of a sudden?

One moment Dean had been shifting his grip, his arm inadvertently settling against Sam's throat, and the next his brother had been a sagging weight in his arms, Dean scrambling to hold him up.

Lying Sam on his back on the grass, Dean dropped to his knees next to him. "Sammy? You with me?"

His sibling was pale, his tan from training outdoors fading to white. Those expressive blue-green eyes were closed, mouth slack.

Dean picked up Sam's wrist and quickly found a pulse. It wasn't too strong or too thready or too slow or too fast; Goldie Locks would be proud, because Sam's pulse was just right. But why was Sam unconscious? He wasn't faking it, Dean knew that much. He could tell the difference between live and dead weight.

Only Sam wasn't dead.

The neck of Sam's hoodie looked a little restrictive so Dean tugged, loosening it. His eyes widened as he saw red marks circling Sam's throat. Marks in the shape of fingers.

Dean hadn't used his hand, he'd used his arm.

He was going to tear the bastard who dared touch his little brother limb from limb. Of course he had to wait until Sam told him which scum-bag had laid a finger on him.

Suddenly, Sam was blinking up groggily at him, glassy eyed. Dean watched as an impressive array of emotions played over his features, eyes widening, face flushing and then lips pulling into a mutinous straight line – surprise, embarrassment and finally frustration.

Dean got an arm behind Sam's back and supported him into a sitting position before his little brother swatted his arm away. "I'm fine."

He couldn't help it, he rolled his eyes in response. Sam exasperated him, there was no doubt about it. Claiming he was fine after he'd just passed the hell out in Dean's arms. But, exasperation or not, Sam was also the most important thing in his life along with his dad and hunting.

Pushing too long bangs out of Sam's face, he noted that his brother's eyes had cleared. And were staring at Dean with accusation in their sparkling depths. Dean put his hands up. "I didn't do anything! I mean I wasn't supposed to pin your throat but it shouldn't make you pass out! You're too--"

His brother pushed himself to his feet, glaring. "Forget it, Dean. Whatever you're about to say, just save it. I'm fine. I'll be in my room packing. For yet another move. Oh joy."

Dean hated when Sam was sarcastic. That was his own shtick, not his little brother. Sam was innocent and naïve and…stomping away, very pissed off. "Hey, I'm not done with you! Tell me who put their beefy hand around your throat! I'm going to go teach them a lesson…hey, Sammy!"

-0-

John had spent the day at the library, gathering information on Spring Heeled Jacks. He'd hunted one before, but only one, and it had been some years ago and his knowledge gained from that hunt had been sparse. He never approached a hunt unprepared, no matter how simple it seemed to be.

That didn't make him relish it any more. Some research he didn't mind. There was a certain beauty to it. The complicated mess of plotting patterns, of putting together clues and figuring out patterns. His note taking was extensive and his breadth of knowledge was expansive.

But a Spring Heeled Jack? Not high on his hit list of evil things to be eradicated. This was one he would have gladly pawned off, even to Sammy. Dean would have found a Jack boring even in his early days of hunting.

Too bad Sam had thrown a damn hissy fit and trudged off to school instead.

Sam was the strangest child. Unlike Dean, who John swore he knew better than himself; Dean liked fast women, fast cars, eating, drinking and hunting. His time was spent in the pursuit of these things. Except for when he was looking out for his little brother.

As he walked in the door, he could hear pounding within. Dean was yelling. "Open the freakin' door, Sam, or I'm going to kick it open...I'm not screwing around here!"

No one pushed Dean's buttons like Sam. Actually, no one pushed buttons in general quite as well as Sam did. He sighed heavily, throwing his backpack on the table before moving down the hallway. "What now?"

His oldest son whipped his head to the side to look at John, frowning heavily. "I tried the Abdominal Stretch with Claw except it was more like a regular Abdominal Stretch and Sammy passed out. And he's got marks on his neck, in the shape of fingers. And the little jerk won't tell me who did it and won't open the door."

Dean was so upset, he was out of breath. And true to form, it was because Sam's well being had been threatened – his youngest had passed out during a training maneuver and someone had dared manhandle him, probably at school.

He was pretty sure Dean viewed Sam as his own personal property and didn't take kindly to others abusing his brother; that was Dean's sole providence. From the moment John had placed Sammy in Dean's arms and told him to run, Dean had protected him fiercely.

John sighed again. He could understand Dean being worked into a froth; now he needed to see Sam, make sure his youngest was okay. "Why don't you pack up the kitchen? By the time you're done, I'll have this all sorted out."

His stubborn son stalked away, mumbling under his breath about stupid little brothers.

John knocked on the bedroom door that the boys shared. "Sammy, it's Dad. I need to talk to you."

He didn't _need_, or even _want_ to talk to Sam; more times than not, all he got for his efforts was a quiet, sulky boy he didn't know how to communicate with. But he did need to see with his own two eyes that Sam was okay. His youngest had a way of getting into scrapes and if he didn't keep an eye on him, his injuries and illnesses tended to get out of hand. Despite Sam's training, the kid seemed like a magnet for trouble, and his slight frame didn't help matters. Though Sam had finally started to grow like a weed in the last year, it only made him even skinnier than John had imagined possible, which John knew made Sam look like an easy target.

Why Sam was so insistent on letting that image persist was another issue entirely.

The doorknob turned and the door swung open. Sam didn't look him in the eye, but left the door open far enough for him to come in. "Hey, Dad," he muttered.

Sam moved back to his bed where his clothing sat in neat piles, waiting to be packed in the large duffle bag on the floor. Tension radiated from him, evident in the straight line of his back and shoulders and the way his head was held high.

John shuffled uncertainly inside. "So, um, Dean said he tried out a new move on you and didn't go as expected."

He heard a soft snort and then Sam turned to face him. "I'm fine. I'm not dizzy, my color is good…there was just too much pressure on my throat."

Those large, slanted eyes still wouldn't meet John's. He walked over, grasping Sam's chin in his hand, rotating the head up. He could see the marks Dean had mentioned. They were probably the reason Sam had passed out. Bruises on the neck were a bitch.

His son tolerated the scrutiny for a while and then stepped back, bumping the bed with his legs. Sam looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here, talking to his dad. "So what happened to your throat?"

Now he got the eye contact he wanted, Sam's eyes blazing. "Some jerk at school tried to shove me in a locker but I took care of it. I don't need Dean fighting my battles for me. I can take care of myself."

The doubt must have shown on his face even though John worked hard to keep a stony expression because Sam huffed before turning back to his project. Clearing his voice, John changed the subject. "We leave at daybreak."

His brain couldn't abandon the subject but he kept his thoughts to himself. His youngest might think he could take care of himself but he hadn't proven that to John's satisfaction. Sammy had always been small for his age and was just now coming into his own, limbs lengthening and stretching. But he was still too slight and his coordination wasn't quite there. Maybe his training wasn't going quite as well as John had thought.

For the moment, John knew enough to keep his mouth shut. But he knew he'd be watching Sam extra close on this hunt.

-0-

Minnesota. The land of lakes, Pastor Jim, and, apparently, Spring Heeled Jacks. Minnesota was one of their more frequent destinations it seemed. Though not really a convenient state for a stopover, Sam knew that his dad's list of friends were few and far between and not even John Winchester's gruff form of agnosticism could alienate Pastor Jim. Which was fine with Sam. As far as the hunting buddies went, Pastor Jim was one of the best. Soft spoken and a keen listener, Sam had found it a bit of a refuge even when everything else was utterly crappy. In fact, Jim had been one of the few people Sam had ever really been able to talk to--about things like God and good and evil. Dean was usually pretty good at letting him ask about most things, but when it came to God or their mother, all bets were off, and it didn't take much to figure out that those two things were related somehow.

Pastor Jim had answers, that was what it came down to. Not the black and white directives his father gave him or the need-to-know crap Dean liked to try to pull, but actual answers, or at least more questions that got him thinking. So, really, Minnesota was actually a step up in the world for Sam, especially considering the hell hole they'd just left, even if they weren't going to be visiting Pastor Jim right away.

Still, Sam was going to be the new kid. He was going to have to figure out his classes and his schedule all over again. And on top of all that, he was going to have to prep for the next hunt, because clearly Sam was past the age that he was allowed to opt out.

Which meant that getting ahead in trigonometry would have to wait another day. Right now he had to read up on Spring Heeled Jacks, which was his father's best guess at their latest hunt.

If he thought he could get away with a little free reading instead, he would. But his father's withering gaze had him pinned in the rearview mirror and Dean's haphazard quizzing of Sam's knowledge of supernatural beings kept him focused on the task at hand.

To be fair, this was a new one to Sam, and even to Dean. It wasn't the run of the mill spirit or a werewolf or anything that Sam had seen before, so the extra knowledge probably would be beneficial in the long run.

The fact that he had to believe that just made him think how completely screwed up his life was.

And to think most kids felt over-protected when their parents set a curfew at 10 PM. Sam couldn't even ride in the back seat of the car without an interrogation or plan for the future without considering what supernatural lore was native to the region.

"Where do they come from?" his brother asked.

Sam sighed. "The first recorded sightings were in England. As far as supernatural creatures go, this one's fairly new."

"Well, think about it," Dean chastised. "What does that probably mean?"

"Considering the reports are kind of distinctive, you'd think it was a ghost," Sam said.

Over the seat back, Sam saw his father shake his head and Sam felt himself shrink a little. So much for proving himself through his knowledge.

Because that was what this was about. It wasn't just prep work or passing the time. It was about Sam proving he could do it. About Sam showing them both that he was up to the challenge. It was a constant pressure, and after the incident with Dean's submission hold, Sam knew they were watching out for him more than ever. Just looking for a way that he could screw up, that they could correct him on the error of his ways, point out his weaknesses so he could never forget them.

They always assumed the worst. They assumed that Sam had gotten his butt kicked by bullies at school, not that Sam had done his best to not make a scene while still getting the goon off his back. They assumed that Sam was too weak to hold up under normal sparring conditions without considering that Dean's constant experimentation was hard to keep up with, as was the constant changes in his body.

Dean clicked his tongue. "Too corporeal for that. I mean, ghosts flicker in and out, but this thing jumps around, touches people."

"And breathes some kind of fire," Sam added in. "I know that. You just asked me about the fact that it's new."

Dean nodded. "Well, it could also be a monster by another name. Some kind of older creature making a new name for itself. That's why you've got to look at the other characteristics, the descriptions, the method of attack. So you can figure out its origin."

Yeah, Sam could see that. And he could have figured that out--but they never gave him a chance. It seemed like everything was a set up for failure. Leading questions about the hunt that never let him reason out loud. Fighting sessions where he was paired again Dean, who was always faster and stronger, no matter what Sam did. He just couldn't win sometimes, and it was more than a little disheartening.

"Come on, Sammy," his brother said. "I'm just trying to get you to think like a hunter. We have to figure out what this thing really is in order to know how to kill it."

As if Sam needed to be reminded of that. Sighing, he knew an argument would get him nowhere. "Past reports have talked about its ability to leap. Like I said, its breath. Some reports make it seem less human, more, I don't know, demonic. Claws and oilskin and stuff."

"Keep it simple, Sam," his father lectured.

Sam resisted his urge to roll his eyes. It would be nice if he got more than two seconds to even talk things through before he was being treated like he couldn't figure it out. "So it's probably got some kind of demonic heritage," Sam said. "Some kind of demon incarnate? Which would explain its superhuman abilities. And its appearance."

Dean nodded approvingly, and he even seemed to be glowing. "Good," he said. "Recent reports are similar, though this one looks more human than not."

"Then how can we be sure it's demonic?" Sam asked.

Dean looked sidelong at his father, who raised his eyebrows. "There aren't many modern cases around the country, but even with the cape and the flourish, these guys always leave behind traces of one thing: sulfur."

Well, gee, it might have been nice if they'd included that in the background they'd given him. Historical texts were helpful, but modern science certain did give them an advantage.

It was a continual test. Always trying to make him stronger, faster, smarter, better. Because he just wasn't good enough.

The fact that Sam didn't want to be better in that kind of way was clearly beside the point.

It just seemed too typical. Sam gets into a fight and they want to protect him and completely ignore that Sam handled it just fine, on his own, his own way. Because there was only one way in this family: the Winchester way.

Which was great for Dean, but made Sam miserable.

He'd have to work harder then. Not to make them happy, but to earn some space again. If he didn't, this next move would be worse than the last. And that was saying something, considering that the courses he'd been stuck in were filled with information he'd already learned and apparently being new, tall, and eager to please made him the target of every two-bit jock in the stupid place.

He shifted through the notes again, looking at the history, the mysterious presence, the gentlemanly facade. "So how is it attacking now? Back then it didn't even seem to kill people. Scared them, scratched a few. But there's little record of them actually murdering, so why is it our gig?"

Dean looked mildly impressed. "Well, death isn't the only supernatural inconvenience."

"But it's the kind we go after," Sam shot back.

"Reports started out minor," their father cut in. "The appearance of a mysterious figure unnerved a few people. Then he showed up in the middle of a traffic intersection. Caused a couple of accidents, one pretty bad. Then he swiped a teenager for a few hours. Kid made it back unscathed, but the pattern's clear."

Sam didn't need it spelled out for him. "He's stepping up the attacks."

"And so how long before he starts to kill? Maybe never, but it's a chance we can't take," his father agreed. "Besides. It's supernatural. We kill it."

It was so black and white. No margin for disagreement. "Silver bullet to the heart?" Sam asked.

"And then we torch the corpse," Dean added in, sounding far more excited than anyone should. "Can't go wrong with fire."

Sam shuddered a little involuntarily. Monsters. Fire. Not his favorite subjects. What kind of hunter would he be anyway?

Dean was grinning at Sam again. "See, Sammy," he said. "All it takes is some focus."

Great. That was so not the lesson Sam was taking away from this.

Still, Sam wasn't stupid. There were some battles to fight, some to let go, and some to fight in secret. The goal now was minimal conflict, proving himself, else he'd never be happy.

Because Sam wanted time to read. Books he liked. He wanted time to do his homework, to join a club or something. Maybe write for the school newspaper. Those were things he liked, things he enjoyed. Hunting was like chores, a requirement. He just wanted to do the bare minimum and make it through.

The balance was off, though. The more they doubted him, the tighter Sam's leash would be.

So this Spring Heeled Jack? Better watch it. Because Sam didn't care so much about the Jack itself, but this was Sam's chance to prove himself and gain the freedom that he needed to do anything he liked at all.

-o-

Dean had to admit. This hunt sounded kind of boring.

Sure, he had to put on a good face. His father wasn't one to tolerate sulking, and in the end, that was just the kind of example Sammy didn't need right about now.

But a Spring Heeled Jack? That hadn't actually directly killed anyone? There had to be some kind of nasty poltergeist or a demonic possession that was more worthy of their time and more interesting to boot. Dean was all up for new challenges, so in that regard adding a Spring Heeled Jack to his list of conquests was good and all, but _boring_.

And not his father's style.

Then again, this probably wasn't about his father's style or Dean sharpening his skill set. This was about getting Sam back in the game, upping his game, giving Dean and their dad a chance to watch Sam in action and see if they could get the kid back on top of things again.

After all, Sammy was getting pushed around by bullies. _Still_. He'd sort of hoped they'd left that behind. Especially since Sam had finally hit a growth spurt. Now they just needed to bulk the kid up and no one would think twice about messing with Sam, because he'd look as dangerous as he was.

Because Sam _was_ dangerous. He could kick any normal kid's ass any day of the week. So why was Sam pussyfooting it? Why was he getting pushed around? Didn't make sense.

Then again, Sam hadn't been making much sense lately. Something had changed in Sam. Sam had always been focused on hunts ever since his dad officially let him in on the family secret. Sam didn't quite like it as much as Dean did, but the kid was good at the prep work even when he hadn't been allowed to participate in the kills. All good signs that his brother was ready to fall in line and be a part of the family business.

And then? Sam changed. Puberty made some kids horny and other kids emotional roller coasters. It made Sam distant and withdrawn. Wanting to spend more time at school. Still obsessed with making friends, doing homework, even extra-curriculars. Which might have been cute were Sam still an innocent eight year old who didn't know better. But Sam did know better. All that crap--it was getting him sidetracked and now they were all paying for it with some inane hunt with some wussy creature with quasi-demonic origins. The best part--the only good part--would be watching the thing go up in flames.

That hardly made the research phase any more fun. Because it wasn't enough to identify the thing, but they had to figure out where it was holed up. Otherwise, waiting for an attack would be foolish at best and just plain stupid at worst. The attacks were random and unpredictable. Spirits had patterns. Creatures of demonic origin? Just liked their kicks.

So they had to track the thing. Which meant talking to people about where they'd seen it, where it went. Clues from its appearance, from its methods.

Of course, it wasn't a coincidence that their father had given Dean the task of following up with the group or terrorized coeds. Sometimes being the good son? Really paid off.

Better yet. They were sorority chicks.

Now if there could just be a spur of the moment wet t-shirt contest, he'd be in heaven.

Business before pleasure. A cruel fact of the universe.

The girls were roommates, an elementary ed major and a communications major. A blonde and a brunette. Both juniors. Names Rachel and Mindy or Rebecca and Wendi or something like that.

They had invited him into the main room, which was sadly empty of other girls, though he could hear some in the kitchen, and he could only hope they'd walk by. If not, he could always feign hunger (which, man, was his stomach grumbling for real or what?).

Not that Renee and Cindie weren't quite enough, but fantasies and all that....

"So you're with the campus paper?" Rochelle asked.

"Uh, yeah," Dean said, turning his focus back to the task at hand. He scowled at his notebook. "Just, you know. Trying to stay _on_ _top_ of the student body."

Raquel (that had to be it) didn't seem to get it (communication major, what did Dean expect?) and Bindi looked vaguely intrigued.

"So the attack," Dean said.

"Wasn't so much an attack," Raquel said. "Just some weirdo."

"Probably some frat boy initiation," Lindy agreed (which, was Lindy even a name?).

"But you said the guy moved quickly? Like track star quickly or--?"

"No, that's the weird part," Raquel said. "The dude was, like, jumping. One second he was there then the next he was over there."

"Optical illusion," Sydney said (because Sydney sounded more plausible than Lindy). "Must have been. Some kind of freakish elaborate hoax to see if we'd scream."

"Did you?" Dean prompted, not sure why it was relevant, but the thought of them screaming made him get a little excited.

Raquel shrugged. "He was just some weird perverted underclassman, I'll bet," she said. "So skinny and all. And that costume. What a stupid costume!"

"What did it look like?"

"Like some freaky-ass old fashioned wedding or something," Raquel said. "Cape and a hat."

"And a trimmed mustache," Sydney added in.

"A mustache?"

"A super well cared for one," Raquel confirmed. "And he spoke all dignified like."

_All dignified like_ was surely a very technical description. Perhaps Raquel could benefit from Sydney's communication classes to help improve her clarity. "And what did he say?"

"Some crap about a lovely evening for a stroll and two lovely ladies should never walk alone," Sydney said. "Total freak all the way. I mean, who takes the time to set that kind of crap up?"

"What else did he do?"

The girls exchanged nonplussed looks. "Jump around, rattled on," Raquel said. "Tried to swipe at us a couple of times."

"Swipe?"

"Yeah, the freak was wearing some kind of claws or something. Didn't get close enough to do anything," Sydney said.

"Um, no," Raquel interjected. "He totally scratched my skirt. My leather skirt. That thing cost me, like, two hundred dollars."

Sydney nodded sympathetically. "I know, and you bought it in Chicago."

"And it's the only skirt that gets me free drinks when I'm at the bars."

"So you two were out drinking?"

Sydney shrugged. "On our way home. But you're not going to print that, are you? My mom would totally freak if she knew. She already is convinced I need to start carrying mace or something after this freak."

Well, that wasn't exactly encouraging. But still, these girls didn't have much to say. It fit the description of a Jack to a tee. The jumping, the monologuing, the clothes. Even the claws.

Raquel giggled. "Though we must have been pretty wasted," she said. "I swear, I saw the dude, like, breathe fire."

Sydney looked surprised. "Me, too! I thought I was totally tripping!"

Breathing fire, check. This was a Jack. And the lesson Dean had learned? That Jacks were the lamest supernatural dicks around, couldn't even scare a couple of half-drunk sorority girls.

The other lesson? That he had missed out on a lot by not going to college.

"Well, thank you, ladies," he said. "I have what I need."

"You sure?" Raquel asked.

Sydney looked somewhat concerned. "And you're not printing the part about the drinking."

"Or the miniskirt," Raquel said. "I put that on my mom's card and she doesn't know."

Dean grinned. "Ladies, I'm a journalist. I have my standards."

"Well, maybe you can, well, wave your standards," Sydney suggested. "Just this once."

Dean caught her drift. "Well, maybe," he said. "But I'll need your names and numbers. For, you know, any follow up interviews."

"I do love a man who's on top of the story," Sydney said, and Raquel giggled.

Dean just bit his lip to hide his glee.

-o-

Mary had always told him not to compare his kids. To not think back to what Dean had done, to not think about how many dirty diapers a day Dean had had, or how soon Dean learned to crawl or sit up or any of that. She lectured him often that their boys were different, distinctive, and that it was detrimental to all of them to compare them.

Still, sixteen years later, it was hard advice to follow. Especially when his boys were so damn different.

Dean was eager and compliant. Damn near perfect. Brilliant on the hunt. Anything John asked, Dean did. There were a few missteps here and there, but Dean was the good little soldier that he needed to win this fight, to keep this family together.

Sam on the other hand--well, Sam was not. Sam was smart, thoughtful in a whole different way. He could see things, understand things. He was a perceptive kid, always knowing what questions to ask and how to ask them. And he had the perfect puppy dog eyes that could get him just about anything the kid damn well pleased.

But where Dean followed orders, Sam questioned them. And it wasn't that John didn't tolerate Sam's curiosity. It was his open insubordination and perplexing hesitance to act that pushed all his buttons. Where Sam used to ask why they moved around so much or why monsters wanted to kill people, now the kid asked why they had to hunt at all. Why they had to give up so many things, why they had to spend so many hours training. Those questions were counterproductive and indicative of a bigger problem with the kid.

Namely, he was distracted. He wasn't living up to his potential. He was whittling away his time on studies and friends and putting his life at risk. He wasn't even fighting back when he was supposed to, which was perhaps the biggest lapse in training John could see. He didn't encourage his boys to violence, but getting beat up? Letting bullies get the upper hand? Wasn't just stupid but dangerous. If Sam had been on a hunt and passed out like he did during his scuffle with Dean--well, that could be the difference between life or death.

So the Spring Heeled Jack? Sam's hunt. Sam would have to know every detail of it, he would have to be part of the kill. After all, he was sixteen. Time for him to step it up--a lot.

And one more comparison? Dean was fun to work with. Witty and engaged.

Sam just looked miserable.

Slumped at the lone desk in the motel room, skimming the text in front of him half heartedly in the dim light. Every now and then, John could see him longingly eye his discarded book bag on the couch.

The kid still wasn't getting it. They'd been in town for nearly a week, checking with the locals, talking to the victims, getting the low-down from the cops. He had consented to let Sam start school, but had insisted that his nights were all prep work and training, reading up on the interview notes, sorting through the police reports, then endurance training, hand-to-hand, some target practice. It was his hope that the kid would figure it out what he needed to be focusing on, but no such luck. John would just have to make it a little clearer.

"How's it going?" he asked, eyes steadily on Sam over the journal open on his lap.

Sam's shoulders sagged a little. "Fine," he mumbled.

"What have you learned?"

"Not much new," Sam said. "Same stuff I've learned _all week_. He jumps a lot. Gentlemanly approach but some weird features. Breathes fire. All the reports talk about the fire. And his cape."

"Then don't look for what we already know. Think about what we don't know."

"Location," Sam intoned.

"So what have you figured out about its lair?"

Sam sighed, shifting through the papers in front of him. "Well, he can move--fast. So he can scale a wide distance. But I plotted the attacks on a map."

"And?"

Sam turned, holding out the map. "And it looks like there's a general zone for the attacks. I figure he's holed up somewhere in the middle."

"So we know the general location," John agreed.

"And so then you think about its personality. For as much as it likes to put on the appearance of a gentleman, it's old. It'd probably want something familiar to call home."

"Such as?"

"My best guess is something wooded. Remote. Nature is always the same. And some of the historical reports suggest that some attacks happened near the woods."

"Which means?"

"Here," Sam said, pointing to an area on the map. "It's sort of small but it's the closest thing to that description in the area. It would provide him a place to hide out during the day. And the kid who was taken reported seeing trees and wandered out of these woods."

And damn it all if the kid couldn't put it together. John had already suspected the woods, that was their usual MO, but he needed Sam to do it. Sam had a lot to learn, a lot to prove, so John was willing to take this one slow--for Sam's sake.

He couldn't forget, though, that no matter how well Sam put it together, this was still the rudimentary stuff. It shouldn't have taken this much pressure to make Sam figure it out. As far as he was concerned, this was still catch up for Sam.

"So what?" he prompted.

"We pick a night, take hand guns and a lighter, and comb the woods. If he's corporeal, he'll have real needs for shelters and food, so he shouldn't be too hard to find."

This was the plan he'd already discussed with Dean this afternoon, but Sam didn't need to know that. "Tomorrow then," he said. "We'll need to get the fake IDs finalized in case we run into trouble and we have to scope out any possible problems."

He could see the relief on Sam's face--for all the wrong reasons. The kid grinned, "So can I go do my homework now?"

John had been expecting as much, but it was just the wrong thing for the kid to ask for. The kid had only been enrolled in school one week and at this rate? They weren't going to be here more than two more weeks. Sam didn't need to worry about school. He needed to worry about this hunt, because no matter how simple a Jack seemed, Sam needed to assume the worst.

And Sam was worried about homework.

"No time for that," John said, giving Sam a steady look.

Sam didn't back away. "But I did the research," he said. "I figured it out."

As if it were that simple. Sam was getting pushed around by bullies, and he thought two hours of work was going to make it better. "You have training, don't you?"

"But I did my morning regimen," Sam protested. "And it's at least a two mile walk from school."

"Dean does so much more than that."

"But Dean's out picking up girls right now," Sam said.

Damn Dean and his bragging. "Your brother also isn't getting pushed around at school and passing out during mediocre hand to hand practice."

Sam's jaw just dropped.

"We need to get you back on track," he explained, not harshly, but sternly. There was no room for argument, no space for disparity.

"But--"

"No buts, Sam," he said, his voice hardening a bit. "You will be on top of your game for tomorrow night. Just a short run to top things off tonight, okay?"

A thousand protests flitted through Sam's eyes, but his face fell, resolved, before he said, "Yes, sir."

With that, he got up and moved stiffly past John to the bathroom. John could hear rustling before Sam reemerged and headed toward the main door.

"Two miles, no less," John ordered. "Then stretches."

The sound of the door closing behind Sam was the only answer he got.

And John was struck with another comparison. Where Dean was readily obedient, Sam was begrudgingly so, and it was so damn tiring to deal with.

-0-

Since training once a day was suddenly no longer enough, Sam was greeted at 4:30 AM with a brusque wake up call, demanding he be dressed in sweats and behind the motel in fifteen minutes. Where as evening training was more of a solitary experience, running and cardiovascular stuff, the morning stuff was a family activity of the worst possible kind.

Sam had spent a good portion of the morning training with Dean under his dad's watchful eyes. Make that over watchful. If Sam was supposed to kick high, he always fell short of his mark. If he was supposed to go in low, he nearly decapitated himself on his brother's muscular forearm. He was lucky he hadn't received anything worse than a bloodied nose and a bruised hip after his showing this morning.

And it really sucked out loud because he'd been trying. If he had gone through the exercises with his usual lackluster effort, he'd probably have done better. His focus was working against him, like his mind and his body weren't quite in synch anymore. Growth spurts, stress, exhaustion--Sam couldn't be sure, but wished like hell it would just _stop_.

As it was, Dean had looked at him like he was retarded and his dad had looked at him as though he was an alien life form. And today, Sam might just believe it.

Winchesters were supposed to naturally take to this shit but Sam was an aberration.

To make today even more stellar, since it was Saturday there was no respite of school. All training, all the time. The new Winchester motto.

After training exercises, he'd been ordered to work on Latin translations. His dad had crossed his arms and glowered when Sam had asked if he could work on the school assignments he was missing. Dean's Latin was suspect at the best of times and Sam's pronunciations were better than his dad's so he didn't understand why he was being made to waste his time.

No, scratch that. He did know. He was being put in Remedial Hunting across the board. Until his performance improved in the field, all of his skills would be hit hard at home to compensate. Arguing would get him nowhere and since he actually enjoyed Latin, he kept his mouth shut after that.

A shadow blocked his light as he poured over the Latin textbook and he looked up to find his dad staring at him with irritation. "It's going to be a long night, son. I think you'd better get some sleep while you can."

Sam was certain he looked like a spaz as his mouth opened and then snapped shut, the proverbial fish out of water.

Sleep wasn't such an unusual thing and it might have even been a welcome break were it not the middle of the afternoon.

Dean was standing by the door, arms crossed.

Apparently he'd managed to piss them both off. He didn't understand how; sure, he'd sucked during the morning training session but since then he'd put his head down and concentrated on the task at hand, one assigned by his dad, not even stopping for lunch.

Snapping the textbook shut, Sam set it on the nightstand between the two beds. Striving hard to keep the attitude out of his voice, he responded, "Yes, sir."

He kind of felt like he was being sent to bed without any supper.

His dad huffed out a sigh, his usual response to Sam these days, and motioned to Dean as he headed toward the door. "Dean and I will be right outside. We'll go get something to eat when you're up from your nap."

The door was yanked shut before Sam could respond.

Little Sammy had been put down for his nap while the big kids got to play outside.

The nerve.

Sam snagged The Scarlet Letter out of his bag. It was the book his English Lit. class was reading right now and it at least featured an element of the supernatural. It made him feel as though he wasn't completely dishonoring his father's wishes. It was splitting fine hairs but he'd be damned if he was going to snuggle down and sleep like some over-tired toddler.

Voices drifted through the open window, disturbing Arthur and Hester's conversation.

"He's not ready, Dad. You saw him out there this morning. He's a disaster."

Dean's words wounded him to the core; his brother thought he was a disaster.

"I know he is. We're going to have to stick close to him but he's sixteen now and it's time he was a full participant in hunting. At his age, you had several successful jobs under your belt already."

As usual, Sam couldn't measure up to his older brother. And it burned like acid in his stomach, rising up his throat.

Throwing down his book, he stretched out on the bed, covering his eyes with a folded arm. The voices receded but their words had marked Sam indelibly.

He was a total fuck-up and his family didn't have any faith in him.

Did they ever stop to think for five second about why? That maybe Sam was four years younger than Dean and couldn't be as good. That maybe his entire body was in full-on rebellion mode as his arms and legs were longer than they were supposed to be. Or maybe, even the unimaginable reality that Sam didn't like hunting. He didn't like to train. And that maybe, just maybe, that was okay?

He was pretty sure those thoughts hadn't crossed either of their minds. The recourse? Train him until he fell into line, until they broke his will, until there was nothing left of Sam's dreams at all.

It shouldn't have surprised him. This was all they knew. Dean liked this stuff, bought into it. He wanted it. And try as Dean did to make things better for him, to help him, Dean just didn't get it.

And now Dean thought Sam just didn't get it, just like their dad.

This hunt, it was his shot at redemption. Prove himself here, and he might just gain back enough freedom to keep himself sane.

Fail, and he may be screwed for the rest of his life.

Yep, this was shaping up to be the worst hunt ever.

-0-

At least it was almost over.

Dean was pretty sure that was what they were all thinking as they made their way to the wooded area Sam had identified as the Jack's hide-away. Not because the Jack was big and scary and particularly important, but because this hunt was wearing them all down.

No, check that. _Sam_ was wearing them all down.

Dean had been downright horrified at Sam's performance during training this morning. Their dad had found them an isolated patch of land next to a cemetery to work out and what should have been an enjoyable time had been the pits.

Sam couldn't execute anything. His little brother's limbs were too long and snaked out at all the wrong times. Dean was lucky he hadn't been maimed. Sammy was lucky he only got popped on the nose and dumped on his side.

It was hard to see his brother like this. Contrary to what Sam thought, Dean wanted him to succeed. Sure, it was fun to razz him but not when Sam sucked this bad.

And it wasn't just about living up to the Winchester name; Dean was getting pretty worried that Sam couldn't defend himself if push came to shove. Was it possible that Sam had tried to fight the bullies at school and failed? It didn't seem likely, but hell. Dean had seen better performance from cheerleaders when it came to hand-to-hand (those damn cheerleaders could be as agile as they were peppy sometimes).

It was Dean's job to protect his brother, but taking him on a hunt right now would be like painting a gigantic bulls-eye on Sam's back. How could Dean be expected to keep him safe under these conditions?

The more he thought about it, the more he worried about having Sam participate in the hunt at all. Sure, the kid had found all of the information needed for this job but that was nothing new. Sammy always excelled at research.

But Sam's entire demeanor was off. When his little brother had been ordered by their dad to work on Latin translations instead of homework, he hadn't argued. In fact, his brother looked worn down, depressed.

Hell, if Dean had a workout like the one Sam had just had, he'd be depressed, too. And embarrassed.

To make matters worse? Sam had been even quieter, if that was possible, after his nap. He'd picked at his dinner listlessly, ignoring Dean's attempts to jolly him out of his funk. The only time he responded was when their dad asked him a question and then he answered with the minimum amount of words and only looked up briefly.

Whatever had Sam's panties in a twist, Dean couldn't be sure. Psychological, emotional, school, training, physical--it could be anything. But what he did know for sure was that Sammy better watch it or their dad was going to go medieval on his ass.

The Impala pulled off the road on to a packed dirt driveway, hidden behind thick brush. "We'll hike in from here. Grab a bag out of the trunk and let's hit it."

Sam quickly clambered out of the back seat and was first in line to snag his cache of weapons. Their dad looked Sam up and down before handing him the khaki knapsack. "You take the point, Sam."

Dean exchanged an uneasy glance with his dad as Sam turned without comment and headed for the thicket of trees ahead. While Sam had been sleeping, he and his dad had talked about how the Jack probably had set up camp at the edge of the trees and here Sam was taking them right into the heart of the wooded area. Easier access to town, they figured, and it was probably easier to navigate while jumping without lots of trees in the way.

His dad shrugged but his face and posture were resigned. They were going to let Sam figure this out the hard way. Which meant it was going to be a long night.

They'd walked single file, ducking branches and leaves, for fifteen minutes when they entered a small clearing. Sam put his arm out to halt their progress. He was looking up at the night sky.

Dean looked up but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Clouds obscured the moon. Hardly any stars were visible. The trees swayed in the breeze.

Suddenly something dark swooped down from the treetops, heading straight toward Sam. His brother held his ground; it was the wrong tactical move so Dean tackled him to the ground.

Visions of Sam passed out on the grass danced in Dean's head. Nothing was going to get to his brother without going through him. He shifted his body to cover more of Sam's

Sam squirmed. "Jesus, Dean, get off. It's just a bat."

Dean glowered. "If it was just a bat, why'd you stop and do your Lassie routine?"

Reluctantly, Dean rolled off his brother, chagrined, giving him an extra shove as he pushed himself to his feet. Just a bat. So maybe he'd overreacted a little. With Sam traipsing them aimlessly through the woods and his atrocious sparring performance, he had a right.

Sam slowly climbed to his feet, brushing the dirt and twigs from his jeans. "The branches at the tops of the trees are broken down, I thought maybe…"

"Maybe what?"

Both brothers startled as John Winchester s voice quietly growled from behind them. So far his dad had been a silent observer, leaving the talking to his sons.

Sam shook his head. "I thought maybe Spring Heeled Jack used this area as kind of a launching pad as he hopped to his hide-away. See, all of the branches are bent going in that direction…"

Dean jumped into the conversation. "I know the Jack can leap but that seems a little farfetched, don't ya think? Me and Dad thought maybe he'd picked a place on the other side of this stand of trees. It's more accessible for his nighttime wanderings that way."

His brother stepped back, looking down and away. "You and Dad talked about the location and didn't think it was worth mentioning to me?"

Now Dean felt like a heel. He hadn't thought about how Sam would feel, left out as their dad compared notes with Dean and left his little brother in the dark. "Just normal review stuff."

"So why did you even bother letting me go into the woods?" Sam asked, and the accusation was clear in his voice.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. It hadn't been mean-spirited. This was about Sam's ability to pull this off, but that didn't mean that they weren't going to have all the right back ups in place.

His dad cleared his voice. "Boys, time's a-wasting. Dean, take the point. Sam, head back to the car."

Sam's shoulders drooped, totally demoralized.

Dean didn't think Sam was ready for the hunt but he didn't think exiling his brother to the car was the answer. After all, Sam had done a ton of work on this one, and even if it wasn't all grade A work, it was still work. Sam deserved the follow through.

Still, Dean couldn't deny it--a launching pad? The kid needed to stop reading sci fi novels in his spare time. Conjecture was good, but there was no evidence that pointed to anything quite like that. The reports said the thing could leap, but people exaggerated that crap, and surely someone would have been more freaked out if the thing was jumping around like Sam seemed to think.

Maybe leaving Sam out wasn't a terrible option, just given the level of distraction. This kind of stuff had to be figured out in advance.

He wanted to keep Sam safe and as far as he was concerned, that meant leaving Sam out of the hunt. But how could he keep Sam safe if he wasn't nearby? And what good would it do Sam's ability to hunt if he was sulking in the car?

His dad surely had a plan, his dad always had a plan, but Dean sort of wished they'd talked about this. Maybe included Sam in on some of it--it would have kept the sulking to a minimum, at least, and might have avoided the need to send him back.

Still, a mopey little brother and a hard-assed father. This hunt sucked out loud.

-0-

John had watched as his sons debated about broken tree limbs and Jack's hiding place. Sam was so far out in left field, it wasn't even funny.

The tree tops were all bent in the same direction but they pointed due south from where John knew the creature's lair had to be hidden. He'd already scoped the area. Found a few likely hiding places along the edge of the trees, all of which were consistent with the direction and method of attacks. By stalking the edges, the Jack could better gauge its victims, better stalk its prey. The Jack may have reverted to nature to hole up, but it was still drawn to civilization, even if it could never be a part of it. It would get as close as it could get without being found.

Between Sam's wayward theories and Dean's over-protective nature, this hunt was derailing faster than John could keep track of it.

It was time to take command of things before they seriously went FUBAR and someone _did _get hurt. Clearing his voice, he rapped out his orders. "Boys, time's a-wasting. Dean, take the point. Sam, head back to the car."

Dean frowned and Sam looked at the ground. No one said anything.

His oldest son finally moved forward, bumping shoulders with the youngest. Sam lifted his face and tried to smile but even from his vantage point, John could see it was more like a grimace.

John searched his mind for something he could tell Sam, something positive he could take from the experience. His mind was a blank. Not only was Sam not physically ready for the hunt but his much-vaunted brain had been a no-show. Maybe they'd trained him too hard, pushed too much--the kid just wasn't with it. Setting Sam loose under these conditions was just begging for trouble.

Time to let Sam stew, finish the hunt, and then rebuild the entire damn effort tomorrow.

Giving his youngest son a wide berth, John passed through the little clearing, watching Dean's straight and steady back. But he couldn't leave things between he and Sam like this and turned around, words of encouragement forming and dying on his lips as a loud crash sounded from above.

Tipping his head back, John watched with fascination as the Snidely Whiplash look-alike pounced downward, cape flowing behind him.

The sight would have been exhilarating – there was nothing like the thrill of the hunt – except for the fact that the hulking form was headed straight for Sam who hadn't set foot out of the tiny clearing yet.

His gun was up and aimed, and his angle was good, no risk of collateral damage, and he fired before he could think twice.

His bullet was dead on, but the Jack was faster than he'd anticipated. The thing had sprung again, a leap so powerful that it rustled the air.

John had to blink, trying to figure out where it'd went.

He glanced to Dean, feeling a little frantic, who was spinning, gun still out and ready to fire.

He was turning to look at Sam when he realized he'd fallen victim to the very stuff he preached again. Overconfidence. Never take a hunt for granted.

And he had taken this one for granted. The only other Jack he'd downed had been easy, in and out. He'd tracked the thing, it had been more predictable than this one, found it mid-attack and shot it in the heart while it made lackluster jumps and blathered pointlessly.

But there was that chance that maybe he'd caught one past its prime. Maybe they didn't have as much leverage in town. There were a thousand possibilities and he hadn't considered them thoroughly enough.

Because there was the Jack, poised behind Sam, one arm wrapped tight around his son's neck, pulling the teenager back against its lithe form.

And the damn thing was grinning. "Careful, careful," it chanted mockingly. "I apologize for the blunt introductions, but I dare say that you did fire first, good sir." It bowed its head in a farcical apology.

John gritted his teeth, narrowing his eyes. He could get off a head shot, but it was too risky. No other part was visible enough to shoot, not with Sam secured in front of him. "Let him go," John ordered, trying to keep his voice strong and even. Never show weakness, not even when the crap has hit the fan and it was all his fault.

The Jack raised a pointed eyebrow, its curled mustache twitching. "Leverage, good sir, is as powerful as the devil himself. You can threaten fire and brimstone, come bearing firearms in shows of pitiable force, but in the end we both know you are inescapably at my mercies."

Over a hundred years and the thing hadn't changed at all. The archaic mode of speaking. The dress. This was a monster straight out of the history texts, all the predictable flourishes and moves, so how the hell did John let it get the drop on him? Worse, his sons? He wanted to teach Sam a lesson, not get the kid caught.

Sam was still, looking grim-faced and ready to move in the Jack's grip. John tried to catch his son's eye, but Sam seemed to refuse.

The fact that the Jack wasn't deadly on its own was some solace, and was the only leverage John had at the moment. "We also know that you like to put on a nice show, but there's little substance beneath your blunder," John said.

The Jack's eyes widened, seeming to glow with a spark of dark red. Its arm tightened, and John saw Sam stiffen, a surge of panic lighting across his face before settling into uncomfortable acquiescence.

"You do mock me to test me so," the Jack seethed. "A strong leader knows not to provoke his enemy, not to bluff when the odds are so stacked against him. This one is yours, I trust? Along with that other trigger happy lad? I know of your ilk, the roguish and those of the hunt. I would assume you fancy yourself a bit invincible, yet still, I am one movement away from breaking this youngster's neck, which I'm afraid he might object to."

John hated to be wrong, hated it more than just about anything. What he hated more, however, was to be wrong when his sons were at risk. To be wrong and get them into trouble. Dean was restless beside him, twitching and waiting for him to lead, to make the right choice and get them the hell out of here. "Let him go," he demanded, but it sounded strained to his own ears.

The Jack seemed to sense John's frustration. Its face brightened, adjusting its grip on Sam's neck again. "I am afraid that is not an enticing offer," it said, its voice sickeningly sweet.

"Let him go or I'll blow your head off!" Dean spat next to him, and John could easily hear the frustration in Dean's voice. His oldest was calm and cool under pressure, at least until Sammy was involved. And given the muted grappling of his son's hands against his captor's arm, Sam was more than involved.

"My lad, you are lacking in the proper language skills," the Jack admonished. He looked down at Sam with an expression of mock concern. "I wonder if this one suffers from a similar affliction." Sam twisted, but John knew it was no use. Even if Sam had been on top of his game, Spring Heeled Jacks possessed a supernatural strength. The Jack looked at John again, a bemused expression covering its pointed features. "Children these days, so lacking in manners, in respect. It is our duty, I suppose, to choke the defiance out of them."

To prove its point, the Jack pulled Sam even closer, causing the boy to gasp as his feet left the ground momentarily.

And John couldn't help it--he fired. Purposefully wide, but close enough to get his point across.

The Jack didn't flinch, and its mouth twisted into a feral smile. "Good sir, perhaps your memory is short," it said. It tightened its grip on Sam, pulling roughly at him. Sam's body jerked, feet stumbling, searching for the ground, and hands beginning to claw, the facade of self-control withering. "Or else I would surely think you would not make such foolish blusters of false bravado."

It was Dean who acted next, a blind charge that was as desperate as it was brilliant. Throwing the enemy off, surprise. All they need was some clearance--

Then the night split again. In a motion faster than John could track, the Jack had sprung, a blur of movement that took Sam right with him. When John blinked, the Jack was gone and there was no trace of Sam.

Then the cackle from behind.

Dean whirled a half second behind him and they found themselves looking again at the Jack, who was standing at the edge of the clearing. Its free arm was wielding its cape to the side, the other still tight around Sam's neck. His son seemed to be weakening, his hands not struggling, his expression dulling. Then, the cackle gave way to a roar, as the Jack opened its mouth and breathed out its blue flame.

The aura was bright enough to hurt John's eyes, but he didn't dare look away. This Jack was nothing like the other one, nothing like the previous reports. Something was different about this one, this time. It could just be playing games, but he wasn't sure he wanted to risk Sam's neck on that assertion.

And if John blinked, if he lost contact, then he could lose Sam.

He didn't move, didn't dare, and forced his eyes not to trail to Dean, who lurked behind him in the shadows. Divide and conquer. Dean wouldn't need to be told. John just had to keep his attention front and center to give them a chance.

Its eyes glowed as its self satisfied smirk widened. With another flash of blue, John could see its fingers elongate to points and the pale facade of skin went translucent enough to see its darkly pulsing insides. "Pity the man who does not learn from his mistake," it said, its voice dropping to an unearthly pitch. "Too many of my brethren have fallen for that trick. I, myself, do not wish for much beyond what all men crave. To be noticed, to be feared, to be remembered."

"Remember this, bitch," Dean said, his gun firing. By moving in stealth, Dean had attained a side position, which was damn smart of the kid.

Damn smart, but not good enough.

Another explosion and the Jack was gone, and John cursed as he tried to follow it with no luck.

"Clever boy, clever boy," it cooed. "You push me and you tempt me and now I fear I have no choice but this: to take what is yours and make it mine."

The Jack's grip was unwavering and strong, and Sam was clearly losing the struggle with consciousness. With another good shake from the Jack, John stifled a curse, and Sam's arms fell limply to his sides as his eyelids fluttered closed.

John was just about to open his mouth, to negotiate, to _something_, but the Jack threw its head back, another bout of blue fire emitting from its mouth, before turning its steely gaze back to John with vehemence.

"Pretty boys and their pretty toys, all mine, all mine," it said. "You will try, like many before, but forget that it is not always darkest before the dawn. Sometimes it is darkest in men's own foolish mistakes. Time will tell for you, and what to make of this boy here?" It motioned to Sam, who was completely limp now. "I am lucky to have the lives of a cat, and shall we see if he has such luck? Good night, good sir. I fare you as well as I would any man who cannot save what matters most."

With that, another gust of air, stronger this time, swirling the dead leaves and leaving a rain of broken branches in its wake.

John turned, desperate, looking for a sign, for anything, but this time the Jack was gone, disappeared into the wood, taking all traces of Sam, and the last vestiges of John's master plan, right along with him.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Master of None

Summary: Sam had been pretty sure his day couldn't get any worse. He'd figured wrong.

Authors' Notes: We're very thankful for the feedback! And we're especially glad authoressnebula likes it :) All other notes in part one.

-0-

It sort of felt like flying.

Not that Sam had ever flown before, but it was sort of weightless and fast, not quite free falling, but certainly not normal. Sort of like a roller coaster, the kind Dean always managed to sneak them onto during their summers at the carnivals they snuck into.

Only those didn't make him feel so sick.

And they didn't hurt.

Probably because this wasn't a roller coaster.

When Sam gasped to awareness, he realized the floating sensation was gone, replaced by a pervasive chill and the numbing fact that he didn't know where he was.

The Jack. The Jack had taken him.

Memory came back to him with a sudden jolt that caught his breath in his throat.

He'd been going back to the car--ordered back to it, because he wasn't good enough, because his ideas had been weak, because he'd been weak--and then the Jack had come. Sam had figured it'd be strong, scaling that kind of distance meant it had to be, but seeing it in action had been impressive.

Well, as impressive as something that was trying to choke him could be.

What was it with him and the throat anyway?

What was it with him and just plain sucking out loud? He had known that the Jack would be around. He'd suspected from the moment they got there. And he'd been so busy feeling sorry for himself, so busy trying to prove himself, that he really did let it all get the better of him. Maybe his dad was right about him. Dean wouldn't have followed that order (not that it was an order Dean would have been given).

Not that it didn't hurt--working so hard and still being not good enough--but he'd been right about the Jack. Now he just had to finish the job, not let himself be taken out and rescued like some baby. Prove himself a Winchester and let himself earn back the freedom and trust he needed to feel like a person again.

Which meant getting up. 

Which was easier said than done.

Blinking again, Sam came to realize he was in a cave. The thing was surprisingly big, with a tall ceiling, and hollowed out space the size of a small bedroom. The place was illuminated by the flicker of candlelight, a lot of it, Sam saw, as a row of mismatched candles sat on a table in the far corner of the cave.

The table wasn't the only thing there. Random coats and other garments were strewn about, even what looked like a handful of purses, a backpack or two. The Jack's trophies.

It wasn't about the kill, it was about the conquest. It wasn't about murder, it was about terrifying. It wasn't the conclusion, it was the performance.

Pushing himself up, Sam winced. The bruises on his throat seemed worse, exacerbated by the Jack's grip. Which, of course, made sense. The Jack was stronger than Sam had expected, not that he hadn't logically known that it would have such power, but being there, helpless in its grip, was another thing entirely.

Worse than that was the jumping. The sheer force involved with those leaps was astounding. The damage to the trees had only told part of the story. Being dragged around, jump after jump after jump--well, it was no wonder that Sam felt like crap. His head ached, his ears rung. On top of that, there was a tightness in his ribs and he felt entirely disoriented.

"The journey is quite rough for those not designed for it," a voice cut suddenly through the coolness.

Sam startled, pushing himself up and backing up to better gain some kind of tactical advantage. Eyes darting, there was the Jack in the mouth of the cave.

The creature was mostly shadowed in darkness, but it was the first real glimpse Sam had at the thing. It was taller than he'd thought, and thinner, too. Though Sam knew from first hand experience that its frame did not do justice to its strength.

It was wearing clothes, which again Sam had expected, and it did give the being an unsettling aura. The gentlemanly attire was complete with a grand cape and, at first glance, one might confuse the Jack with an actual human.

But as it stepped closer, eyes alight with a terrible joy, Sam saw just how inhuman the thing was. Its skin looked vaguely human, sometimes, but seemed to shimmer with translucency in the flickering flame, revealing the hint of bone and raw organs pulsing on the insides. Even the hands, long fingers curled in a facsimile of humanity, flashed with talons as the light hit them.

Still, it was the face that tested Sam's emotional mettle. The neatly trimmed mustache curled at the ends, almost a caricature of the gentleman the Jack was impersonating. The face was long and thin, pale skin shimmering with the same demonic transparency. High arched eyebrows and a slender pointed nose were accented with a wide thin-lipped mouth which was kept in an unwavering smile.

And the eyes. Glowing red and alive with the delight of evil and madness.

Sam had seen scarier, though. And he knew his stuff on the Jack. He knew what it liked to do, he knew that it didn't want to eat him, probably didn't even want to seriously hurt him. Maybe it thrived on fear, depended on it, or maybe it was all evil for evil's sake, but no matter. Silver bullet to the heart and Sam just couldn't let it get to him.

"You took to it poorly, I'm afraid," the Jack said. "Those human bones, that fragile skin. But ah, how I love that flush of a human cheek, the prickling of soft skin in fear. Those are the things, dear boy, the things that make existence worthwhile."

Sam swallowed, rallying his strength. His head was clearing and that was all he needed. The pain was a transient thing, temporary and passing, and he just needed to get rid of this thing and find his father and get out of there.

Fumbling, he dug in his pockets, looking for his weapon.

And that's when he realized that he was in trouble.

It wasn't there.

The Jack sprung unexpectedly, landing near Sam with a surreal grace that left him cold.

"What's that you say?" the Jack asked, craning his head to look down at Sam. "I did not squeeze hard enough to strangle, just hard enough to make my point. Fear makes men respond in different ways. Some, they scream, desperate and afraid. Others, they shut down, close off, as if their stillness will save them. And others, still others, are even less wise and fight fire with meager droplets, not enough to quench a babe's thirst."

It wanted an answer, that much was clear. The Jack was close enough now that Sam could see just how impressive the creature was. Muscled and strong, this being could inflict damage if it wanted to--but none of the reports documented any damage, not directly. Just fear. It wanted his fear.

He steadied his expression, giving it the best defiance he could muster and said nothing.

The Jack edged closer, leering now, leaning down, ascertaining Sam's features with a scrutiny that made his father's watchful eyes look negligent. "Too scared? Too hurt? Or perhaps you were damaged from the start?"

Stiffening, Sam wouldn't give it the satisfaction. He had to hold his ground--his father and Dean would find them.

The Jack was practically kneeling now, almost on top of Sam, and it took one clawed finger and traced it up Sam's jacket. "Young boys must do as their told," he said. "They are good for little else"

And didn't that just sound like his father?

The talon lingered on Sam's throat. "No, no, dear boy, I think you just need some persuasion," the Jack said. It raised its eyebrows, cocking his head. Then it paused before unleashing a gust of fire, burning blue and searing dangerously close to Sam's face.

Startled, Sam tried to curl away, shielding his eyes from the scorching heat. Close enough to singe his hair, but not to hurt him. It was a game, Sam reminded himself, a game.

"No response? None at all? That is one of my best tricks. But no, no, not you. Simple parlor tricks do not impress," it said. "Children today, too full of flight and fancy, too much whimsy and disbelief. I miss the simple days, dear boy, when all you needed was a leap and a flame and ladies passed out and grown men cried."

Screw that. Sam Winchester was no lady and he wasn't a grown man and a Spring Heeled Jack wasn't anything to him but a chance to show once and for all that he could handle himself.

"But you," the Jack continued, using both hands hand, trailing up and down Sam's shirt. "You have shown me the power of change. Evolution, I believe. The strong survive. I know my strength and I know my worth, but now I ask, dear boy, what about you?"

That wasn't a question Sam had been expecting, not a topic of conversation that he'd been expecting. Something was different, something was changing--

With a smile and a quirked eyebrow and a motion Sam couldn't see and certainly couldn't avoid, the Jack had him airborne, a fact made painfully clear when Sam hit the wall.

It was a hard hit, flesh on stone, at a velocity far too fast for such a small space. His body crumpled, something breaking, Sam was sure, as he landed heaped on the ground.

At first, he was too disoriented to think or to feel, but it didn't take long for pain to throb its way back into his consciousness.

His head, his back, his arms, his legs--everything. It all hurt with an intensity that left him helpless.

Not helpless. He could hurt and ache and everything else but that wasn't what it wanted.

With a blink, Sam couldn't quite tell what direction he was facing, up or down, but it didn't matter.

"People can fear what they do not know, what they do not understand. They can fear dark alleys at night or strange men outside their windows. They can fear plague and disease and death and decay but, I ask you, do you fear me?"

His eyes focused and the Jack was above him. Their eyes met and Sam swallowed past his abused throat. This question he would answer. Unequivocally. "No," he said, with a vengeance and desperation that had nothing to do with the Jack at all.

The Jack looked nonplussed. It shrugged a shoulder. "Then perhaps you should fear foolishness," it said. "For it shall surely be your undoing."

And a blaze of blue, and Sam was flying again.

-o-

Dean could handle a lot of things. He really could. He could handle being dragged across the country. He could handle the money when their father disappeared for weeks on end. He could handle lying to Sammy about when Dad was coming back or that his little brother had nothing to worry about. He could handle no friends, and a string of girls, and getting through school without trying. Hell, he could handle more weapons than most trained military personnel. He could handle the hunt, which was nothing to scoff at.

So yeah, Dean could handle a lot of crap.

Too bad there was still one thing he couldn't handle, one thing he'd never be able to handle.

Sam in danger.

He could handle Sam when he was whiny, Sam when he was a smart-ass, Sam when he was defiant, even Sam when he was screwing up left and right and making Dean wonder what side of the bed Sam had to wake up on to be that whacked.

But Sam in peril? Sam getting beat up by bullies? Getting snatched by supernatural dick heads who weren't suppose to be dangerous?

So very, very not cool.

He kind of felt like panicking. After all, the thing had gotten Sam, evaded them, knocked Sam out and taken off leaving him and his dad alone.

"Something's wrong," his father muttered, eyes combing the now-quiet woods.

"That bastard took Sam," Dean said, which was probably stating the obvious, but what the hell else was he supposed to say, especially when his dad stated it first.

His father scowled. "This isn't its MO," his father said.

"Leaping around? Talking crap? Big cape? Sounds exactly like its MO," Dean replied, more curt than he would have normally, because, well, there was nothing normal about this situation. When it came to Sam, all bets were off.

"It might take someone," his father said. "But it was too aggressive. That was more than a display. It shouldn't have hurt Sam. None of its victims ever lost consciousness."

What did it matter? All that mattered was Sam, who was not here, because some moronic Spring Heeled Jack had gotten the drop on them, just like Sammy had suggested. "We're wasting time," Dean said, his patience thin. "We need to find Sam."

"No, Dean, we need to think," his father replied sharply, looking at Dean. "We underestimated it once and we ended up in this mess."

Dean took the reprimand and swallowed hard. "So what's its deal?"

"It's like it's stepping up its game."

"Well it's been doing the same thing for a hundred years, I'd get pretty bored, too."

His father nodded grimly. "We need to find Sam."

The now was implied.

"The trees," Dean said suddenly. "Sam noticed the trees. The branches, they're all broken in the same direction. If he uses this as a launch pad, we can probably figure out what direction is home."

His father was already moving, closer to the tree line as Dean spoke. "There's some in all direction, which makes sense if this is his main launching base," his father was already theorizing, moving carefully around the trees and fingering some of the snapped branches. "Here. These."

Dean moved closer. "There's more going this direction," Dean said. He moved into the trees a little. "Deeper, too."

"More consistent."

"Like he goes home this way every night," Dean concluded.

His father pulled out his gun, and checked his ammo. "Let's go."

That was an order Dean didn't have to think about to obey.

-o-

John had been hunting for almost sixteen years. That was a hell of a long time. He'd killed more things than he could remember, more things than he wanted to remember.

But he was still missing that one thing that mattered. The thing that had killed Mary. Everything else was just a pursuit of that. Honing his skills, widening his knowledge, keeping his tab on the supernatural world.

In the grander scheme of things, a Spring Heeled Jack was nothing. Just another thing to kill, another chance to train his boys. They needed to learn after all. If they were going to be safe, if they were going to be ready--this was the stuff they had to know. Dean liked to call it a family business, but that wasn't what it was. It was a family curse, a curse of knowing too much. It'd burned him once (burned Mary), and he wouldn't let either of his sons fall victim to their ignorance and weakness.

So the hunts now, they were lessons. Training grounds.

After sixteen years, though, John didn't like to think that maybe there were lessons he had left to learn.

Lessons about how creatures can change and evolve. How they can surprise you. How sometimes an outside opinion, no matter how crazy, may just be right.

Sam had been right.

It had sounded so ludicrous, out in left field, and he'd been so ready to look for weakness, to see some sign that Sam wasn't with the program that he'd compromised them all. And his youngest hadn't been--not for nearly a week. But tonight, he was ahead of it.

The Jack didn't kill people, John knew that, but there was that niggling doubt now. That chance that this Jack was different, that this Jack put on the ultimate show to scare John senseless and take his baby boy--take him for good.

At this point, he didn't know. He couldn't be sure.

He just had to follow the trees, watch for the occasional drop points, and thank God that even if his youngest was a mess at sparring and unmotivated in his research that he'd put that much together.

Dean's footsteps fell hard and fast behind him, and John felt the weight of his gun in his hand. These things were his responsibility, though. His. Sam's safety was on his shoulders. The boys had to understand that, had to understand that training and research and hunts were for their own good.

For all the good that getting taken by a Spring Heeled Jack did them.

He and Sam needed to talk. Hard and long, like men. About why they did this, about why it mattered. They had to listen to each other or they would never make it.

First things first, though, John had a hunt to finish. And he'd be damned if this was the one that got the better of him.

-o-

The Jack rose to his full height, arms out to his sides, claws curled. He had an impressive wingspan which helped in part to explain how he was able to soar through the air. Sam tried to get a good look at the black patent leather boots, wondering absently if they had some sort of jet pack in them.

One of the knee length boots snapped forward and Sam tried to dodge, but only made it part way. Instead of taking the kick to the side of the head, the kick caught Sam on the chin. Blinking his eyes in a futile attempt to focus his bleary vision, Sam groaned. Instead of cataloguing the Jack's physical characteristics, he should have been fleeing the cave.

In his defense, the creature had heaved him around, bashing him off the limestone walls, interspersed with occasional shakes that rattled Sam's teeth. A concussion was definitely a possibility and thinking through it was a bitch. But if he wanted to tell his family what he'd found out, he'd better find an escape route. Killing the Jack on his own was a distant memory.

Surviving long enough was even beginning to come into question. It didn't fit the MO, though. The Jack wanted fear, not death, didn't it? Hadn't his dad made a point to remind Sam that this was supposed to be easy?

Rolling to his knees, Sam pushed to his feet, weaving in place. The Jack reached out with a claw to ensnare Sam's neck and he feinted left before dodging to the right. Dull moonlight was dappling the packed dirt up ahead and if Sam could get out of the enclosed space, he might have a chance at ditching the Jack.

He was three steps from possible freedom when something bowled into the back of his legs. Sam's feet staggered, tried to remain balance, but ultimately crashed to the uneven flooring. His forehead bounced painfully off the surface and Sam saw stars.

By the time his brain rebooted, Sam was on his back, a fist clenched in the material of his shirt, lifting him off the ground. "Are you addled in the brain, boy? You think to toy with me? I am through with these games. You will know real fear at my hand."

Sam's eyes were drawn first to pointed teeth gleaming in the moonlight and then to eyes blazing blood red. He tried to scramble backward but he couldn't find purchase, his feet scrabbling ineffectually over the packed earth.

Fear, the Jack wanted, and fear Sam was beginning to feel. The Jack did not have a history of this, it didn't hurt, it didn't kill. But his dad wouldn't be afraid. Neither would Dean. If they couldn't kill it, they would snark, monologue, prolong it. Sam had to keep fighting, the only way he could. The way they would want him to. He would just give the Jack a little of what it wanted, conversation, pleas, something to buy him some time before his family charged in to save the day. "Please…"

But it was too little, too late. The Jack's conversation was over. The humor had dwindled to rage in its eyes and Sam realized they had all been wrong. Fear wasn't enough. Not anymore. The Jack had been scorned and ignored and Sam was one victim too many to underestimate that. Too little, too late was the story of Sam's life with a big_ I told you_ so from Dean and that condescending shake of the head from his dad that sent Sam packing to the car where he belonged.

The dreaded claws latched on to his throat and soon Sam found himself dangling in the air, his abused throat squeaking as he tried in vain to pull in oxygen.

-0-

Dean was on point and he weaved through the maple trees, ignoring his harsh breathing. They weren't going to sneak up on anyone but Dean didn't care; his sole driving force was to find his younger brother.

When the Jack had taken off with Sam in its arms, Dean just about dropped to his knees and wept. Panic pulsed through him in waves and if his dad hadn't touched his arm, refocused him, Dean didn't know what he would have done.

He was the older brother. It was his job to look out for Sammy.

He broke from the clearing and saw a wall of moss covered limestone. His dad stood next to him, chest heaving. Dean wanted to scream his frustration, rail at his father, do something. They were at a dead end and no Sam.

And then voices drifted from above. "…through with these games. You will know real fear at my hand."

"Please…"

That was Sam, pleading. Although Dean had to admit his brother didn't sound particularly scared. It was more like he was about to launch into some great debate, probably recounting the reasons why the Jack should leave Sam alone.

But Sam was up there, somewhere. Dean's eyes scanned the limestone and finally landed on what looked like a hole about fifteen feet above their position.

Dean drew his arms through the backpack securely and then started looking for hand and foot-holds. The limestone was brittle and Dean wasn't sure it would hold his weight but he really didn't care, fear for his brother's safety driving him upward.

His dad was scaling the surface to his left, both of them scuttling and scrapping. Spiderman would have been disappointed in their efforts but Dean let success wash over him when he pulled himself on to the ledge outside of the opening.

The feeling of success turned to unmitigated fear; the Jack was holding Sam by the neck, his brother's legs a foot off the ground. Loud wheezes filled the cavern, a testament to how tightly the Jack held Sam in his hold.

Dean eased the pack from his back and withdrew his gun along with a bottle of holy water.

The noises coming from Sam were gut wrenching, distracting, but they served to cover the noise of his dad's ungainly entrance into the cavern. His dad indicated that Dean should move around to the side or back of the Jack through a series of hand signals.

Stealth was not his friend as Dean moved along the side of the cave. It was a mixed blessing that the Jack appeared to be oblivious to the extra people in its lair as it babbled threats and continued its attack on Sam. "You think to mock me but I have walked this land for two hundred years. I have seen the rise and fall of nations. Please, speak up, I can't hear you."

Sam's back was arched, his arms dangling awkwardly behind him, his legs unmoving.

Dean drew a bead on the Jack's head and despite the urge to utter his own Clint Eastwood speak along the lines of _I can hear you fine asshole, can you hear this_ he kept silent as he squeezed off his shot.

The back of the Jack's head exploded in gore and blood. Silver bullet to the heart, not quite, but it would do the trick for now.

The Jack dropped to its knees and Dean could only hope it had dropped its hold on Sammy.

His dad rushed forward, dousing the creature with holy water. Dean rushed forward as the Jack struggled. It had no brain to speak of but just like a zombie, it kept thrashing and fighting.

"Dean, get your brother!"

The Jack was being dragged away from Sam as Dean dropped to his knees next to his still sibling. Sam was sprawled on his back, legs bent awkwardly beneath him, arms flung out to each side. His chest wasn't moving.

Sam's chest wasn't moving!

Dean sought his pulse but he couldn't find one at his wrist. His fingers darted up to Sam's neck but hovered as he gasped, forcing the bile back down his own throat.

Sam's neck was mottled with red but it was caved in on itself, the Adam's apple crushed, a hideous injury against Sam's fragile body. "DAD!"

Heat exploded behind him and Dean crouched protectively over Sam's body. A hand at his shoulder made Dean jump. "How is he?"

Dean moved his body to the side, hand cradling the side of Sam's face. The skin was still warm which was something.

But Sam's eyes were slitted open, his pupils hauntingly large, gaze fixed and staring. Almost as though he was already de…

He heard his dad's swift intake of breath. "Shit. It crushed his larynx. I'll have to…"

His dad moved away from his side, leaving Dean bereft. Where was his dad going? He needed him to make this right, make Sam all right.

The heavy pack thudded down beside him and then his dad was diving through it. "I need tubing, shit where is it, okay. I can do this."

Dean had never seen his dad so rattled, his hands shaking as he pulled items out of his kit. And rambling. His dad was rambling like an amateur.

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

Eyes focusing on Sam again, his brother looked worse. His face nearly colorless now, the features drawn, lips already shaded blue in the moonlight.

The hundreds of actions and words Dean had used to torture his younger sibling flooded his mind with recriminations. You're too slow…stupid…young…boring…short. Dean was always pointing out Sam's flaws. And the training exercises and incessant belittling of Sam's skills. Dean didn't do it to make himself feel better. No, his motives had been more pure though the methods brutal by anyone's standards.

Sam had to toughen up if he was ever going to be a real Winchester.

At least that was what he told himself. That was the point of the hunt, after all. Make a man out of Sam. Make a Winchester out of him so he could survive to hunt another day.

Training had been a disaster. Research had been slow. But Sam had been right when it counted about the Jack. And now Sam was lying right there in front of him, chest still, lips going purple, face almost blue, and every expectation seemed stupid now. Stupid and blind and it didn't matter how much training, how much research, sometimes this stuff just _happened_ but it wasn't supposed to happen to _Sam_.

Screw it all. Dean didn't care about the hunt or killing the Jack or making Sam a Winchester. Dean only wanted one thing from his brother now – for him to live.

-0-

He'd doused the Jack with lighter fluid and salt before striking a match. He hadn't wanted to do it so closely to his sons but he didn't have time to move the creature; he wanted to get this over with and see how Sammy was doing.

Panic boomed from Dean's voice as he called for John and he sprinted over, skidding to a stop as he got his first good look at his baby boy. He asked about Sam's condition but Dean seemed to be in some sort of shock.

Sam's face was bruised and bloodied, a contrast to Dean's own strong, healthy hand cradling the abused cheek. But it was Sam's neck that had borne the brunt of the violence. It looked wrong, pulverized, mangled, and realization hit him hard. "Shit. It crushed his larynx. I'll have to…"

The damaged throat convulsed, Sam's mouth gaping open, nostrils flaring, but it was obvious Sam's breathing had been compromised.

It wasn't too late. But it would be soon. If John didn't do something--fast.

And he knew what he had to do. He did. He didn't want to, but he couldn't deny it.

Nausea burst through John's body, his mind going over the macabre procedure he was about to undertake. He'd never done a tracheotomy himself but he'd held down the Private while the doctor had performed field surgery; they had spread the boy out on the hard ground while the doctor cut him open and inserted tubing so that air could get to his lungs.

As a medic, John had received training in how to perform the procedure but that was some twenty odd years ago and it was never intended for use on his son.

But he hadn't intended on a lot of this. He hadn't intended for Sam to start off so sloppy. He hadn't intended on underestimating the Jack himself.

Mentally shaking himself, John acknowledged that right now the biggest adversary was time. Was Sam taking in any air or had he already sustained brain damage? And how would they get him to a hospital?

First things first. He muttered to himself as he dumped out what he needed; sharp knife, tubing which he kept in case of an emergency blood transfusion, tape, gauze padding and alcohol.

It came back to him with a numbing clarity. All the years since the war, all the time he'd spent forgetting those days, and they were gone just that fast.

Alcohol was soaked liberally over the knife. He handed the bottle to Dean who seemed to hesitate before grabbing it. "Dean, spread some of this over Sam's neck. Then hold him down if he moves," he ordered.

Dean blinked, staring at the bottle as if he'd never seen one before. He looked almost as pale as Sam.

There wasn't time, though. "Hey," he said roughly. "Are you with me? I'm counting on you, Dean."

It was a lot to put on his oldest but he couldn't do this by himself. He never could. God, he missed his Mary.

John tilted Sam's head back, thankful that a patch of moonlight was spreading over their position. He tried to remember how they'd gotten here, the disappointment he'd felt seeing Sam screw up, the certainty that Sam had to be sent back to the car.

Why hadn't he kept them all there in the first place?

There was no turning back. Not with Mary dead, not with Dean looking at him like he was the last hope in the world, not with Sam dying under his hands.

He quickly made the first of two incisions, a curved line along his son's relaxed skin tension lines. It was hard to see if he had the placement right but he didn't have time to measure it out. The second incision was a vertical incision.

Blood started welling up and John had to work hard to prevent his hands from shaking; Sam was still a child and he didn't know if a pediatric trach was different than one performed on an adult. He also didn't have time to figure it out as his eyes swept over Sam's face and he noticed the blue tinged lips.

Sam didn't have the time.

John quit thinking and let his hands take over. He made the incision needed through the second and third tracheal rings and then it was a mad dash to soak up the blood with gauze pads before inserting the makeshift tubing.

The tube didn't want to slide into the wound John had created; it was like trying to make a square peg fit in a round hole. Brute force was required and John cringed as something in his baby's neck scraped and popped obscenely.

A ragged wheeze filled the air and John sat back on his heels, wiping the back of his arm across his forehead. His whole body was shaking in the aftermath. The noise Sam's battered body made as it greedily sucked in oxygen through the man-made airway was hideous but it meant Sam was going about the business of living.

"Dad, the tube is moving…"

Dean's panicked words registered in his mind and John reached for the tubing as the blood slicked fingers of his other hand sought the tape. He fumbled, unable to pull off the length needed.

His oldest son reached out and guided John's hand beneath Sam's head to hold it in place while Dean took the roll and tore off the tape. John adjusted his grip and watched, mesmerized, as Dean wound the tape around Sam's delicate neck. At last Dean patted it gently around the tubing, satisfied that it would hold.

John's brain was thawing out. He wanted to hug both of his sons close but Sam couldn't be jostled and Dean needed to go for help. "Son, I need you to bring back help. Our phones can't pick up a signal here and you may even have to head back to town. But I need you to bring back paramedics. There's no way we can get Sam down without compromising his airway."

Dean's forehead crinkled and his mouth twisted into a frown. A gentle hand snaked out and brushed the bangs from Sam's forehead. "But what if he needs me…"

He wanted to take the time to assure Dean that Sam would be fine, that Dean had done what needed doing and that John had everything under control. But those words would have been a lie and John couldn't say them, not now.

Instead John interrupted him, his manner brusque. "Help me get your brother situated and then get going."

_Sam doesn't have much tim_e. He left the thought unspoken.

Dean frowned in frustration but nodded his head. Dean always did John's bidding, thank God.

His oldest son, fair of form and face just like Mary but practical like John, supported Sam's back and shifted him until he lay securely in John's arms. "Hang on, Sammy. I'll be right back."

The voice was gruff but the look in Dean's eyes was wild, disconsolate. If something happened to Sam, John knew Dean would be broken.

Kicking the remains of the Jack, scattering the ashes, Dean scooped up his backpack and headed for the cave opening, glancing over his shoulder one last time. And then he was gone and John was left holding Sam in his arms.

Sammy's color was better, his lips losing the purple-blue tinge. But the usually tanned and ruddy cheeks were pale, the eyes closed against the injustices of the world.

John needed his youngest to open his eyes and glare, mutinously, tell him he was okay and that he wanted to study or read or do anything except what John asked him to do.

And John would allow it.

He cradled Sam close, willing his body heat to warm the smaller form in his arms. The gangly limbs were limp in repose, constant motion eerily stilled.

If Sam could just hang on a little longer, everything would be okay.

-0-

This place was wrong.

Unfamiliar and cold, it smelled clean and impersonal. Not like the generic scent of over-starched motel sheets or even the well-worn feel of the Impala on a warm stretch across the plains. It seemed funny, actually, that those transient things were his only sense of home, his only sense of normal.

And this was so far removed, it almost hurt.

No, it just hurt. Not the room, not the smell or the feel or anything. He hurt. All of him, deep and throbbing, enveloping him.

He couldn't think _why, _though. Couldn't really remember any reasons. The training, maybe. All that incessant training made him ache, made him want to sleep his way through history class.

No, not training. The kids at school. The jocks he let pick on him because it was the one thing that seemed normal. Another way to make himself less a freak by being more of one.

_Logic_, Sam thought. Who needed it?

It didn't answer the question because he had no facts to deduce from. It seemed like there should be. Like all the pieces were right there in front of him. The unfamiliar room, the sterile feel, the _pain_.

Not a motel. Not the car. Not a hunt. 

The hunt.

The Jack.

And the facts came flooding back to him with the ferocity of the Jack's leap.

Then there was light and sound, blinding and muffled, and the pain ratcheted up a notch to a nauseating pitch and he wanted to throw up, but there was nothing he could do, nothing at all, because he couldn't breathe--he couldn't--there was something.

"He's awake," someone said, someone he didn't know. Not Dad, not Dean. Not the jocks and their stupid intimidation tactics that just made them sound goofy. Not the Jack and his perfectly drawn accent that was all part of the facade.

A face, then. In front of the light. Masked.

Doctors.

"Sam, you need to calm down," she explained. "You've been hurt very badly, but we're taking care of you."

That wasn't very reassuring, because he still couldn't breathe, and his dad should be here, yelling at him, reprimanding him, _something_. He was like the only idiot alive who could get hurt by a Spring Heeled Jack.

Alive. Kind of. He needed to _breathe_.

"Just relax," she coaxed gently. "I know it must feel strange, you've got a tube in your throat."

That was a fact he hadn't been prepared for and one that didn't quite make sense. Because his mouth opened and closed, he could feel his tongue, too large and heavy in his mouth and pressure, though, in his throat, his neck, though--

"You can't talk," she said.

But it still didn't make sense. His mouth, his neck, his throat--the Jack's clawed fingers digging into it, crushing--

The question flared anew.

She tried to smile in response. "We're going to put you under," she said. "When you wake up, the tube will still be there. Your throat will need time to heal. You're lucky."

Luck--just like his good luck that he'd gotten himself knocked out by his brother. Just like his good luck that he'd made the wrong suggestion and disappointed his father. Just like his luck that he met up with the one Spring Heeled Jack that didn't want to play by the rules.

But the world was hazy, now, and he still couldn't breathe, but he was breathing anyway, and that doctor was still looking at him, her lips moving, and he was tired of being too weak, and too slow, and always wrong.

And he fell asleep under the litany of his own failures.

-o-

There were too many damn people in this place.

Old people, children, doctors, nurses. An old dude with a patched up coat sleeping in the corner, mouth open and head leaned up against a seat. A little girl coloring in some picture book, something with princesses, it looked like. A pair of doctors in green scrubs, talking, one rolling his shoulders as if to stretch and the other unwrapping a candy bar.

The place was packed. A baby was crying somewhere and the room buzzed with quiet conversation. Some chick cradling her arm kept swearing at her boyfriend.

So many people. And none of them knew anything, at least not anything Dean wanted to know.

His dad had tried, of course. He'd tried way back on the scene, to jump into the ambulance with Sam, but he'd been refused. Something about procedure and liability and Sam's vitals were a little shaky and they just had to go and Dean and John had been left standing by the Impala feeling empty and bloody.

Because they were. Empty one pain in the ass little brother and covered in his blood. Their dad, more so, and glancing at him now, Dean could see that it was still there. Hands coated with it, a macabre sight that Dean sort of felt should give them some kind of precedence.

It didn't.

Upon their arrival they had been told precisely that Sam was still in an exam room and that a doctor would be out to talk to them soon.

That had been nearly half an hour ago.

Thirty damn minutes.

These people just didn't appreciate it. They didn't appreciate that Sam hadn't been _breathing_, that his neck had been _crushed_. They didn't appreciate that Sam was all that really mattered, that this was _Dean's _fault, that Sam had been _right _when it counted even if he'd been wrong about everything else. They didn't appreciate that Dean had run two miles in ten minutes and that when he'd gotten the paramedics back to the cave, Dad had been cradling Sam like when Sam was a baby (those few times Dad had had the time) and he'd been crying and Sam was wheezing and limp and Dean thought _he_ might pass out.

This was his fault. He was the one who knocked Sam out during training. He was the one who told their dad that Sam was out of it. Dad trusted him to play point when it came to Sammy. He trusted Dean to know the difference between normal teenage idiocy and the kind that got people killed.

He'd thought Sam was a liability. He'd just wanted to make sure Sam was up to his game, to get his focus where it belonged.

The hunt. This was their life, after all. Dean knew all the reasons why, he knew about Mom, but he also knew that this was the only thing worthwhile. The only thing constant. The world needed them to hunt. And Dean got that. He did. And he was more than happy to kill some evil sons of bitches if it made the cosmic balance a little more fair. After all, there were guns and fire and it took skill and precision--those were things Dean could do.

Sam could, too, if the kid just ever focused. That was the gist of it, why he'd mentioned anything to Dad at all. Because Sam wasn't focused. He was spending time on homework and getting beat up by bullies. Sam was better than that. Sam had more skill than that. Sam had more important things to do than that.

But now Sam was in a hospital with some kind of friggin' hole in his neck all because of some stupid-ass training hunt that they'd worked him tirelessly for only to ignore him when push came to shove.

Sam was better that that, too.

Dean sighed, dropping his head.

Hunting was dangerous, he _knew_ that. But never like this. Bumps, bruises, scrapes. He'd gotten a broken arm once, a concussion maybe. But motel room patch-up jobs. Bragging rights and a pat on the head from his dad for a battle well fought.

This?

So not the way it was supposed to go.

Dean didn't ask for much in life. Hell, he refused a lot of it. He didn't need the house and the yard and the bedroom with a stash of skin magazines in the back of his closet (his duffle worked just fine for that). He didn't need teachers who remembered his name or his name on the roster of a baseball team or a locker that he actually used (and remembered the combination to). He didn't need any of that crap--stability, normal--but he sure as hell needed Sam.

Looking up, he cast a glance at his father, who was seated stonily in the chair next to him.

Their dad had said this was a good idea. Their dad had said this hunt would be easy. Their dad had thought Sam's idea about the trees was stupid. Their dad had sent Sam back to the car.

A move that left Sam vulnerable, a fact that they'd used to find Sam in the end. A hunt that wasn't easy. No, this was a very bad idea.

Why did they have to make it so complicated? Why couldn't Sam just get with the program? Try to enjoy the hunt? Open himself up to the training? It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't without its perks.

And why couldn't their dad ease up just a little? Give Sammy _some _credit. It was all or nothing with their dad, and while Dean was willing to take all of it, Sam was more likely to choose nothing.

But they didn't get it--his dad and Sam. Living at polar opposites, each convinced they're doing the right thing even when they're not. Dean had learned a long time ago that life was never going to be fair and it was never going to be perfect. He had to take the best that he could and give back what he could manage and let the chips fall where they may. It didn't give him everything in the world, but Dean had given up on most of it years ago.

Now there was just the hunt and his family. New creatures to kill, new weapons to play with, new moves to try. And Dad and Sam there to back him up.

The simple pleasures. He didn't ask for more and therefore was never disappointed with less.

It kept them safer.

Didn't it?

He sighed, letting his gaze go to the floor again. He wanted to say something, to do something. But there was just nothing to say. Nothing he could think of that would make anything better.

"You okay, Dean?" his father's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Dean startled a little, looking up and slinking further back in his seat. "Yeah," he said, offering up a lackluster grin.

His father hesitated, seemed to be thinking. "Dean--"

Dean just shook his head. "Just--don't. It's okay. Sam will be okay."

"There was no way to know," his father said. "About the Jack."

Dean couldn't move at that, just clenched his jaw and wished his dad would stop talking.

"It broke all the rules."

At that, Dean just closed his eyes, swallowing slowly before he opened them again. He shook his head. "Sam started to figure it out."

"Sam was distracted."

Dean glared at his father. "So this is his fault?"

His dad deflated, rubbing a hand through his hair. "No," his dad said. "This is all of our faults. It's Sam for being so damn blind to what he needs to do, it's yours for babying him, it's mine for never knowing when to ease up. It's just the hunt, Dean. This is what we do. This is why we train. This is why we have to be damn near perfect because the evil out there just doesn't stop, it never stops--" His father's voice gave out, cracking on the last word and he swallowed hard.

There was pain in his father's voice, and a sadness Dean rarely saw, and Dean felt his anger waver. "I'm the one who doesn't forget that," Dean managed to say. "That's why we pushed this week so hard."

His father nodded. "I was just so sure," he said. "That Sam would get it together. If we pushed hard enough. And then I didn't believe him when he did."

But Dean hadn't either. "So what do we do?" Because Dean could still hear Sam's strangled gasps for air. He could still see the tubing sticking out of his brother's throat, and how young Sam had looked cradled in his father's arms.

His father's sigh was weary, downtrodden. The things they never let Sam see. Because Sam could never understand, not like they could. He couldn't understand that the hunt was about survival. It was about family. It was about all they had left in this world to fight for. It was a pain Dean remembered like smoke in the night and the weight of his baby brother in his arms and that first and most important order, _take your brother outside, as fast as you can. Now, Dean. Go!_

And that was it. That was why they were here. Sam had been spared from that much and why couldn't Sam just understand that was what hunting was all about? Because life without it meant pain without making it better. Hunting gave them purpose, the step ahead they needed...

But it also gave him a little brother with a crushed larynx and a hole in his neck. Hunting had nearly taken the most important thing.

Dean didn't know how to reconcile those facts, didn't know how to make it parse. How to need and loathe hunting when it was simply the very foundation he built his life around.

But he'd never seen anything like that. The color of Sam's face. The blood on his neck. A nightmare he would never escape.

"Sam will be okay," his father said.

Dean looked at him, dared to hoped, begged his dad to make this right somehow. "You sure?"

His father nodded, eyes wet, before his face set once again. "Sam will be okay and we'll all train harder and we'll work together and, you'll see. It will all be okay."

It sounded so good, so exactly what he wanted more than guns and girls and ghouls. And Dean had to believe because he had nothing to fall back on if he didn't.

-o-

John was a good liar.

He hadn't always been, of course. Much of his early life there'd been no need. Not in the war, not with Mary. Those were days of honesty, of pure fear and pure love and everything in between.

But Mary's death made a liar out of him. He'd promised to protect her, to protect her boys, and that lie was one he was still trying to rectify.

So he lied to get what he needed. He lied on hunts. He lied on insurance forms. He lied to get credits cards. Those were necessary lies, he told himself. To get him to undo that first great one.

When he told Dean Sam would be okay, John almost believed the lie himself. He was that good.

It was what Dean needed to hear. The military man in him could appreciate that much. Soldiers didn't need the truth; they needed enough comfort and healthy fear to get them through the night. And Dean always responded just like he should.

Sam never did. Sam never did anything by the book. Screwing up all week in training only to get his game face on when it counted, which was exactly the time John had stopped looking for it to show up.

Maybe he'd let his boy be a kid too long. Let him live in that fantasy world where monsters weren't real and where life was safe and simple. Because what favor had he done the kid? Finding out had been no less traumatic and now Sam wasn't ready, didn't have the right mindset at all, thought like some _kid_.

He was a kid. His son was sixteen years old.

But damn it, Dean had been so much more at sixteen. So much faster and stronger and smarter in the ways that mattered.

Not that Sam was stupid or slow. He just didn't have the focus. Didn't have the discipline. No, his Sammy was still clinging to the vestiges of childhood that John had given in to for so long and it had blinded them all. Made Dean distracted. Made John short-sighted. Made Sam hard to believe in.

But John had to believe in his baby boy now. That Sam, when the chips were down, would prove himself to be the Winchester that he was.

He had, after all. Sam had figured out the Jack's pattern. He had given John the tools he needed to track the son of a bitch. And he'd been defiant to the end. The Jack wanted fear, sought it out and Sam had refused to give it. Not because he was a soldier, but because he had the pride and guts of his brother and his father in him.

For the good it did him. Nearly got Sam killed.

John could still hear it, the wet pop of Sam's muscles and ligaments in his neck, the gurgle of his breath coming out the tubing. And John could still see it, the badly bruised neck, long and disfigured, waxy in the moonlight. And John could still feel it, the faint thudding of Sam's heart against his chest and the rise of bile in his own throat as he held his baby boy.

This was why they trained. This. Right here. And he'd told Dean that much truth. They would train harder. They would be better. They would be on the same page or it would be the death of them all.

But not tonight.

God, not tonight.

"Mr. Winchester?" someone was asking, and John blinked and realized he was staring at a nurse. She was smiling, a sort of sympathetic smile. "The doctor would like to talk to you about your son."

Dean was already up before John could clear his head enough to think. "He's okay?"

"The doctor will talk to you about his condition," she said.

"Just tell me he's okay," John said again.

Her smile was wan. "Your son is stable at the moment," she said gently. "Now, please. This way."

How he managed to stand, John wasn't sure. But he followed her down the hall, Dean at his heels, a constant presence. He could always count on Dean.

The nurse was young, blond and perky. John subconsciously catalogued her as non-threatening. Too bad he hadn't taken the same care when deciding Sam was ready to go up against the Jack.

The nurse seated them in a waiting room in the heart of the ER amidst crammed cubicles. "Dr. Albertson will be right with you."

Dean spoke up, his tentative tone at odds with his usual bluster. "Please, is there any word on Sam?"

The nurse tucked a strand of hair behind her ear; it was a definite tell. "I'm afraid I don't have any news other than he's stable. I'm sure Dr. Albertson will update you."

Her voice was thick with compassion and John had a moment of irrational fear. He'd done everything he could for Sam but what if it hadn't been enough? He had already been making mental plans about how to bring his youngest back into line when in fact he should have been focusing on Sam's survival.

"Mr. Winchester? I'm Dr. Albertson. We'll be taking your son up to surgery. After I explain what we're doing for Sam I'll have Angie bring the consent forms over to you." The doctor was short, even shorter than Sammy, but he had a competent manner and immediately John let himself relax. Marginally.

John nodded his assent. He'd known Sam would require some sort of surgery, if nothing else then to repair the damage he'd caused when he'd forced the tube into his son's neck. The squish and pop of that maneuver stuck in John's head and every time he thought of it, he was overcome with nausea. The Jack had really injured his baby and John had finished what the creature had started.

Clearing his voice to gain John's wandering attention, the doctor launched into his explanation. "Sam's trachea and larynx were crushed. He sustained severe tears to the muscles, ligaments, and cartilages in his neck that support the act of breathing. Your decision to perform an emergency tracheotomy probably saved Sam's life in the short term but with that procedure comes a host of complications, including infection and severe injury to the affected structures."

The doctor paused, watching John carefully to see if he was following. John could only nod numbly. Dr. Albertson continued the litany of woes, "We've got Sam on a broad spectrum antibiotic and normally we would want to wait until the infection is under control before performing surgery but the trauma of the injury requires that we go in and clean up what we can otherwise even if Sam makes it, his breathing might be compromised and he would have to remain on mechanical ventilation. That isn't even taking into account the possible brain damage Sam may have suffered or the fact that his vocal cords have been torn to shreds. But we'll face those bridges when we get to them. If you'd like to sit with Sam while we prep him for surgery, he's in this cubicle. Angie will be along with the paperwork for you to sign."

As John awkwardly bumped past the doctor, his mind overloaded with the severity of Sam's situation, the doctor patted him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry that I couldn't give you better news. I'm afraid I can't even speculate on his prognosis. There are so many variables involved. But if Sam makes it through surgery, and if he pulls through the next forty-eight hours, I'd say his chances will have dramatically improved."

Blindly reaching out, John grasped Dean's arm. He wished he could comfort his oldest son but right now his whole attention was focused on the still figure lying on the exam table.

Sam's color was milky white, a wheezing sound squeaking through the makeshift tube John had speared into his young son's throat. For once in his adult life, John didn't have the answers.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Master of None

Summary: Sam had been pretty sure his day couldn't get any worse. He'd figured wrong.

A/N – Faye: We apologize for the delay in this third part – especially to Authoressnebula. I have to take full responsibility for it – it's been kind of an exciting week at my house and not in a good way. But here's part three for Nebula and the rest of you who are reading. Thanks! And enjoy the ending.

-0-

There was this memory Sam had, from when he was very young. He didn't know how young because Dean didn't remember this memory and their father would never answer when Sam asked about it. But Sam remembered it regardless, always had and always would, no matter how much everyone else wanted to forget.

Though maybe it was less a memory and more of an impression. A vague sensation, but clear enough to be distinctive. He had a friend name Joey once when they lived someplace out east and Joey insisted that the memory was nothing more than an odd conglomeration of thoughts and feelings, nothing specific, all converging to form something that was almost real but not quite.

Sam didn't care. He had so few memories of his childhood that he would cling to what he had.

But this memory, this impression--whatever it was, it was a time when he was helpless. Trapped, even. Like he knew he needed to be someplace else, _anyplace _else, but there was nowhere to go. He had no means to move. Sam could even remember crying, desperate and long, but that there was no one there.

It was cold in his memory, cold and hot, like ice and fire, dancing on his skin and running through his blood. Sometimes he could even feel his stomach turn but not enough to change it. Never enough to change it.

No one could stop it in his memory. Not even that shrouded sense of movement, of getting _out_, because the terror wasn't about what was on the outside, but what was within.

The memory is his, but the moment it represented almost didn't feel that way. Like he was disconnected from his own life, which is about as disconcerting as the memory itself.

It was like that now. Disconnected, cold and hot, desperate and futile. As though Sam knew he needed to do something, but instead found himself incapable of anything.

There was movement, though, Sam knew that much. Movement and sound--voices, lots of voices. So many he didn't recognize. Hushed and professional, cool in tone and brusque in delivery, accompanied by sure, quick touch and bouts of pain and nothingness.

Doctors and nurses, the thought came to him distantly.

And then other voices, two he knew. Dean. Dad. They didn't say much, but Sam knew that was pretty normal. They never said much, and if they didn't want to talk about wayward memories, Sam was pretty sure they wouldn't want to talk about this.

Sam just couldn't quite remember what this was.

Sam tried to, though, he did. A good Winchester in the end. He sort of wished his dad would just tell him for once, lay it all out on the table so Sam could know what he was dealing with, but that just wasn't his dad's style.

And maybe for once Sam didn't want to know. Dean always told him there were some answers not worth figuring out and Sam wondered if his brother may be right. Because it hurt--somewhere, beneath the gauzy nothingness, there was pain, and lots of it. There was pain and weakness and Winchesters weren't weak, they just weren't, and Sam couldn't admit anything to the contrary because he wasn't feeling up to running laps right then.

And his eyes were open sometimes. Flashes of light, not quite dream, and his awareness was almost within his grasp. The ceiling was dark and paneled and the shadows that danced across it made him as dizzy as the unsettling sense of disconnection that encompassed everything.

His dad was there, Dean, too, and they almost smiled, but not quite and they were trying to tell him something. Orders, maybe. About shooting to kill and falling in line and other things, important things, things Sam should remember but didn't want to.

Sam had Chemistry homework in his backpack. Something about balancing chemical equations but that was useless information, useless against a Spring Heeled Jack that just wanted a good scare.

Maybe it worked. Sam was scared.

He blinked, slow and it was like a curtain falling over the world and opening them again was harder than it should be.

Dean, then. Smiling.

And Sam couldn't help it. He wanted to ask. Why they were here. What he'd done wrong again. Why it hadn't worked. Why he'd tried and trained and studied and stood his ground and the Jack had tried to kill him anyway.

He licked his lips, and almost couldn't feel it, and he opened his mouth and it was all wrong. His father was touching him then, holding him gently, shaking his head and giving orders, always more orders, and he had that look in his eyes, that look like Sam screwed up again.

And he did. He did screw up. Because his neck was on fire and it felt wrong, it felt weird. There was something wrong with it, and the lightning hot scald of pain was enough to bring his world into focus.

"You can't talk," his father was saying. "You can't talk just yet."

But Sam didn't understand. Wanted to, but couldn't. He'd been right about the Jack, right about the trees, right about its lair. So why was he still getting sent back to the car?

There was a tickle in his throat and as he tried to swallow it became a full blown gag.

He was choking. The Jack had choked him. The Jack had choked him and he couldn't talk and he couldn't breathe.

"You've got a tube in your neck," his father said next, his words cutting through Sam's awareness. "Sam, do you hear me?"

It was a voice that brokered no argument. Left no room for interpretation. He turned watery eyes to his father and begged an answer.

His father seemed defeated, Sam realized. Broken. "The Jack--it hurt you pretty bad. Your neck--the doctors are a little worried still. It's not going to be easy, but you're going okay. You're doing okay."

_Okay_ was a tube in his neck and the paralyzing realization that he was helpless. It was all being taken from him. Every opportunity he ever had. The promise of school, of achieving something else, was squelched out by the endless hunt. The dreams of happiness and freedom and safety were lost between sparring sessions and stretches. His chance to prove himself once and for all was choked out of him by a Jack who didn't play by the rules. This was a game he was rigged to lose and it just wasn't fair.

He didn't want to be sent to the car. He didn't want to wake up to training and go to sleep with research every night. He didn't want to travel from state to state and wake up not knowing what time zone he was in. He didn't want a tube down his throat, taking his voice, taking his autonomy.

He just wanted to _live_.

His dad was stroking his hair, soft and gentle, and Sam tried to remember again, remember the last time he felt safe.

A tear trailed from his eye down his cheek as his father spoke quietly. "You're okay, Sammy. You're okay."

But Sam wondered if his father knew what that meant at all. Just like he wondered if his dad knew exactly what that memory was, knew far better than Sam, but just didn't want to tell him. Just like he wondered how orders were a part of love, how so much danger was a part of safety, how feeling so alone could be a part of family.

Still, Sam couldn't speak. He couldn't move or breathe or research or disappoint. He could only close his eyes and wonder his way to sleep.

-o-

Dean liked to have an optimistic view on life. He really did. After all, he saw what good the strong and silent lifestyle did for their dad. Sure, his dad was pretty kick-ass, and he knew how to use more weapons and kill more things than Dean could even imagine, but there was so little joy in it. Just in and out, do the job. Necessary roughness and all that kind of crap. It was effective and it was damn impressive, but it was a far cry from happy.

And he saw what good brooding did Sammy. Sam always wanted what he didn't have, always asked questions he didn't need to know the answers to and it just made him more unhappy. Sure, Sam was freaky smart and Dean was pretty sure the kid was capable at excelling anything he put that little geeky brain to doing, but Sam chose all the wrong things to focus on in some warped sense of self exploration. It was kind of funny to watch, a lot annoying, and in the end it just made all of them miserable.

So Dean took what he had and did what he could. There was always a silver lining.

Well, almost always.

Sitting in Sam's hospital room, watching some damn tube stick out of his brother's throat, he was finding it hard to find the bright side. Because those were some pretty bad lemons he had in front of him.

He supposed he should be grateful that Sam's life was mostly out of danger. The doctors had cleared his kid brother from the critical list about a day ago, but that didn't really change things too much. The tube was still obscenely stuck in his brother's throat--a precaution the nurses assured him, just to make sure that Sam's throat was stable and that he warded off infection before they took it out.

And infection there was. Burning bright in his baby brother's cheeks. They kept Sam loaded on painkillers and antibiotics and supposedly Sam was beating it, which was more good news, Dean supposed, but it didn't change much.

Because, even with all that, there were still a lot of questions. Questions like would Sam ever talk again? Would Sam ever be able to eat normally again? Would Sam still be Sam when they finally stopped all those drugs enough to let his kid brother come to?

No way to know, the doctors said. But they had every reason to be hopeful.

It was doctor BS and Dean could spot it a mile away. Cautiously optimistic and loaded with a whole hell of a lot of unknowns. Worse because in that long list of things to go wrong, Dean wasn't sure the Winchester luck would hold out and check off every one.

And there was no _bright side_ to that. What, was he supposed to be happy that Sam could never talk again as long as he still had all that big brain intact? Or maybe he was supposed to be satisfied to hear Sam whine even if he had some kind of reduced mental capacity?

And how the hell was he supposed to feel good about the whole idea of hunting, of his family being together, when hunting and family togetherness had gotten them there in the first place?

That was the crux of it. After three days cramped up at Sam's bedside watching as nurses poked and prodded and doctors checked out the freakin' hole in Sam's neck, Dean didn't know how to feel about how they got here.

A simple hunt. In and out, straightforward. A chance for Sam to practice. For Sam to relearn the basics.

Well, Sam was relearning the basics, all right. Starting with learning to breathe all over again.

Their dad, for his part, hadn't moved from Sam's side. Dean had barely seen the man pee in the last three days, which maybe made sense since he'd barely seen him drink anything either. It was sort of weird, really. His father's vigil. There were soft touches and gentle words and it was all so unlike John Winchester, that Dean wondered what rabbit hole he'd fallen into and how he could get the hell back out.

Because he was more than willing to pass up the sympathetic side of John Winchester if it took Sammy lying there, looking like _that _to bring it out.

Then suddenly, Sam was moving.

The kid had twitched some over the last three days, but moved? Not so much.

Dean saw it first, and was sitting up in his chair to get a better look, when Sam opened his eyes.

Swearing, Dean rushed to stand, but his dad beat him to it. Straightening in his chair, their father loomed over Sam, looking intently in Sam's face. "Sam?" his father asked. "Sammy?"

Sam's eyes were barely slits, and his kid brother's gaze was muddied and confused.

Their dad leaned closer, putting one hand on Sam's head with a foreign tenderness. "Sam?"

And Sam blinked, his eyes clearing a little, just enough and something akin to panic passed through them.

As Sam licked his lips, his mouth working slowly, Dean realized why.

There was a tube sticking out of Sam's throat, after all. While Dean was acutely aware of that, he had spent the last three days staring at it. This was probably all news to Sam. And rather unnerving news at that.

Their father hushed him, stern but soft. "You can't talk right now," he soothed.

It didn't seem like Sam was really listening, which Dean supposed was about the only normal part of this situation. Instead Sam tried to lick his dry lips again, his pale features trembling a little bit as tears filled his eyes.

"You've got a tube in your neck," their dad said. "Sam, do you hear me?"

And there his father went, asking questions he knew the answer to, as if he hoped that asking them would give him a different answer. When it came to Sam, they never did.

Sam's eyes begged with questions, demanding answers that would never do them justice.

This time, however, their dad answered. His voice was different, though. Broken. Maybe a little defeated. A tone Dean hadn't heard in sixteen years. "The Jack--it hurt you pretty bad. Your neck--the doctors are a little worried still. It's not going to be easy, but you're going to be okay. You're doing okay."

It wasn't quite a lie, but it certainly wasn't quite the truth. It was a hope. His father didn't know. They all depended on their father to know, to be sure, and all their dad had to offer was a damn stupid optimistic hope.

It suddenly seemed so naive. So obvious. And Dean couldn't help but wonder how much of their lives were based on the same damn hopes and well-intended lies. Like they could believe it enough, they could train hard enough, kill enough evil to _make_ it true.

Dean felt his own throat constrict as a lone tear dripped down Sam's cheek and his father said, "You're okay, Sammy. You're okay."

And Dean wanted to believe. _Needed _to believe. Just like always.

Because there was something he was forgetting. Something sixteen years in the making. That life sucked. That the real world, despite all its allure for Sam, had as much good as bad. Had as much pain as pleasure. Dean didn't make lemonade for the kicks.

He made it to survive.

Sam's eyes fluttered shut and his brother shifted, settling back into sleep. Dean watched as his father stayed near his brother, hand still on the unruly mop for a long moment. Then, the tension seemed to leave his father's body, and he sank back, looking so much older than Dean had ever seen him.

Dean couldn't help it. He couldn't _help _it. Seeing Sam like that, seeing his father like that, maybe it wasn't the time for truth. Maybe it wasn't the time for reality or fears or anything else.

Dean couldn't fix the hunt. He couldn't go back and stop the Jack from hurting his brother. He couldn't go back and make his dad listen to Sam. He couldn't even go back and make Sam get his mind on the hunt where it belonged. He probably couldn't even change their father's blind focus on the hunt or Sam's incessant need to question.

But he could do the one thing he'd always done. He could be there. He could believe, no matter how ostentatious or beautiful the lie.

With a sigh, he cleared his throat, his eyes lingering on Sam once again. "It's true, you know," he said.

His father didn't blink, didn't move. Stayed as still and pale as Sam. "What?"

Dean turned his eyes to his father, resolving himself to this. "Sam's going to be okay."

There was a flicker of doubt in his father's eyes. "And how can you be so sure?"

Dean laughed, short and humorless, and just shook his head. "He's too damn stubborn not to be," he said. "And you're too damn stubborn to let him be anything else."

At that, his father smiled, tired and weary and relieved, and for a second, even Dean believed his own words.

-o-

It was a slow week.

Transience defined his existence in the best and worst of times, so the idea of being still and confined was damn foreign to John Winchester. It wasn't that he missed the road, not with that yearning of desire, but it was more than he just didn't know what to do with himself when he had so much time to _think_.

And, given the setting, the thoughts weren't pleasant ones.

After all, not even John Winchester could ignore the fact that Dean had taken up permanence residence in a hospital chair and Sam was still laid out on a bed with a hole in his neck.

A hole John had put there.

It had saved his son's life, but the question still remained. Just what life had he saved? The doubts were ebbing, thankfully, as each day the doctor reported that his son was improving. His breathing was strengthening and his reflexes were returning to normal. These were good signs, hints that Sam would soon be well enough to come off the ventilator and that Sam's neck would heal enough for him to regain some kind of semblance of normal living.

They weren't sure, however, if Sam would be able to speak or swallow, and there was even some lingering doubt as to the possibility of brain damage. As if John needed the possibility to feel even _worse _about it.

So it was impossible not to think about it. Not to think about how this was his fault.

Mistakes always fell back on bad leadership. Sam's sloppiness was as much his fault as was his blind insistence that made him send his son back to the car. If he had just been more vigilant, Sam's skills would have never gotten lax. If he had just paid more attention and not babied his son, Sam would be much further along in his training.

The answer was, of course, to forge ahead. To push harder. Never admit defeat.

But...

Sam was still pale in the bed, his hair disheveled on his head. His young features were drawn and sunken, the days of being on the ventilator taking its toll. Sam had been almost awake on and off, vague awareness that was just enough to terrify his son and make John ache.

Sam wasn't a soldier. John knew that was the problem. But maybe Sam wasn't supposed to _be _a soldier.

His youngest had never fit the mold, though John had to admit, he'd never wanted to think about it. Sammy had been so young when Mary died, so innocent. Sam didn't know about the evil that had touched him. Sam didn't _have_ to know.

It was why he'd kept it from Sam. Keeping it from Dean was damn near impossible--John's early days had been too messy to hide from Dean's wondering eyes, and his oldest was too aware of the shift from normal to off the grid to hide it from him.

He'd kept Sam innocent because John wanted to believe that it could all be over before Sam would ever have to know. As if keeping him a baby would mean that Mary would never miss out on him growing up.

It wasn't about Sam. It was never about Sam. Not even the decision to train Sam had much to do with Sam. It was a necessity. The way it had to be. John had forced himself to believe it for sixteen years and he wasn't about to stop now. He couldn't _afford _to.

But could he afford seeing his son here like this? Could he afford it if Sam was never the same? Could he afford it if the light was squelched forever from his baby boy's eyes?

It was so damn _hard_.

He looked at his sons again, Dean sprawled awkwardly in the chair, mouth half open, fast asleep. Sam on the hospital bed, tubes stringing off him, still and weak.

There was always a price to pay. He just had to figure out how much he was willing to sacrifice. Give up the hunt, let the boys have normal lives, and run the risk of being blind sided again. Prepare the boys, chase down the evil that did this to them, and risk his sons' every happiness.

It wasn't a fair choice. It just wasn't. Not to him, not to Dean, not to Sam.

There was a rustling, a slight shifting, and John broke himself from his reverie. It was Sam, moving slightly on the bed. His long fingers were twitching, curling a little, and his head was moving restless.

He leaned forward, readying himself. This wasn't too uncommon; when the sedatives began to wear down, Sam would venture toward consciousness, sometimes surfacing for brief, hazy periods. There wasn't much to those times, and at first they'd been reassuring, but the empty panic in Sam's features had done little to assuage John's anxieties or to quell his doubts.

Then, a cough, or something like it, rippling from Sam's chest and shaking its way up Sam's heavily bandaged throat.

John's brow creased.

The cough rattled Sam again, and John leaned forward, reaching out tentatively to touch his son when an alarm sounded.

He was used to the beeps and blips of the machinery by Sam's bed. He was even used to the doctors' tests and the nurses' prodding. He was used to the small talk and the ache in his back and that willowy look of exhaustion in Dean's eyes.

But this--something was different.

As John was trying to figure out which monitor had sounded, everything started happening.

Sam's eyes popped open, wide and frantic and searching, and before John could even react to that, there was a nurse hovering over both of them and Dean was grunting to awareness behind him.

Between all of it, the nurse's quick motions, Sam's panicked look, Dean's demanding voice, John felt his heart thudding loudly against his chest.

Something was wrong. Something was wrong and Sam couldn't breathe or Sam wasn't breathing or his throat was collapsing or he was bleeding and it was just _wrong_.

John felt light-headed, and his vision was graying around the edges.

Sixteen years to fight so hard and it happened like _this_. He was going to lose one of his boys, and if he lost one, he lost both, and it was _all his fault_.

And he could see Sam missing a punch while sparring, he could feel the gentle shake of Dean's head as he tried to figure out what was up with Sam, and he could hear his own voice saying how stupid it was that the Jack would have a launching pad--

It couldn't happen like this.

Fumbling, he tried to stand, to back away. There was a doctor now, and someone talking to him and Dean looking pretty freaked out and John didn't know what to do, couldn't even stop himself as his knees buckled and he hit the floor.

When he opened his eyes, Dean was grinning at him. The kid looked tired, weary, but nearly damn giddy.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

John blinked, his body tense. He was in a bed now, he realized. Flat on his back with an IV coming out of his hand.

"You nearly took out one of the nurses with that nosedive you did," Dean said, sounding far too cocky for a kid making fun of his old man.

Then John realized what Dean was saying. He'd passed out. He'd went out cold on the floor of Sam's hospital room--

He bolted upward, eyes roving the room.

"Whoa," Dean said. "Take it easy."

But John couldn't take it easy. He remembered Sam's cough and the monitor and--

He was halfway out of bed and to Sam's side when he saw it.

The tube. The tube was gone.

No wonder Dean was grinning.

"He was fighting the tube," Dean said, his voice hushed. "So the docs took it out. They've left the port in there just for awhile longer in case they need it again, but they think if Sam can hold his own over the next day, they'll stitch it up."

Good news. This was good news.

Still, the IV tugged at John's hand, and he pulled it out. He needed to see Sam, needed to check him over, needed to know for himself. "Was he okay?" he asked, his eyes never leaving Sam.

"He was awake and alert," Dean said. "Couldn't talk yet but he was nodding yes and no like a champ. They think he's all there and better yet, they think once the swelling goes down and it's not so sore that Sam'll be able to talk again."

It was too good to be true. Standing over his youngest, his hand fell softly on Sam's hair. His son was sleeping, face turned away. The heavy bandages still wrapped his neck, but Sam looked different now. More comfortable.

"They gave him a little something to help him sleep," Dean said. "I wanted to wake you up but they said you probably needed your rest as much as Sam did."

Rest didn't matter. There would be time for that, John would be sure of it. He just needed one thing right now. He just needed to know.

Carefully he leaned down. "Sam," he called, moving a hand to his son's shoulder. With a gentle shake, he called again. "Sammy."

Sam's body shifted, resettling itself, and John tried again.

"Sammy," he said. "I know you're tired, but I just wanted to talk to you, just for a moment."

Sam moved again, his head rolling this time, face turning toward John's voice.

"That's it," John encouraged.

And then Sam opened his eyes.

This time, however, even under the muddiness of drugs and exhaustion, John could see his son. He could see the boy who had trained for a week, who had researched, who had tried so hard to defy the Jack.

John smiled. "Good to see you awake," he said, feeling the inexplicable swell of tears behind his eyes.

Sam's brow creased a little, his lips turning down in a frown. He wet his lips and opened his mouth.

John shook his head. "Don't try to talk," he said. "Not yet."

But Sam's eyes watered as he shook his head. He opened his mouth again, purposeful and wide. Slowly, carefully he formed two words: _I'm sorry_.

And John felt his heart threaten to shatter. Sam was lying in a hospital bed because of John's own failed decisions, apologizing to his father.

"It's okay," John cooed softly, a hand stroking Sam's hair again. "We'll talk about it later, okay?"

Later when John knew what to say, when John knew how to fix it. When John had figured out how to reconcile his son's shortcomings with his own twisted expectations.

Sam's eyes were drooping, slipping shut, but even as his son disappeared back into sleep, John could see that Sam didn't believe him.

It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last and it was cold comfort for John as he stood there a moment longer, hand on Sam's head, watching the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest and wishing that this could be all that mattered.

-o-

Two weeks.

Two weeks of IVs and bandages, of tests and questions. Two weeks for them to tell Sam that he was doing exceptionally well. Two weeks where exceptionally well meant barely managing to swallow without croaking and squeaking out strained noises.

Two weeks of his dad's hovering, of his brother's wise-cracking. Two weeks of everyone pretending like Sam hadn't screwed up so bad to end up in here in the first place. Two weeks of delaying the inevitable critique, of not talking about the Jack, of not thinking about the fact that Sam's shortcomings had resulted in a hole in the neck that was putting them more behind schedule with every breath that grated through Sam's healing throat.

Two weeks, and Sam was finally out of the hospital. Fresh air and freedom.

Sam took a deep breath of the crisp air and it irritated his throat. A dry cough racked his body and he bent forward in the wheelchair, straining to ease the pain.

So much for freedom.

The nurse pushing his wheelchair halted their forward progress, kneeling in front of him, tipping his head up so she could assess his condition. Dean was standing over her shoulder, worry creasing his face.

He tried to talk, to assure them he was okay, but only a grating wheeze left his mouth. He resorted to mouthing the words _I'm fine, I'm sorry_.

Fine. Sam didn't know if he was fine but maybe if he said it to himself enough, his body would follow suit. Cooperate. He did know he was tired of lying on that damn hospital bed, the nurses and doctors poking and prodding. And waking him up. His body craved sleep but apparently that went against hospital policy.

The Impala, gleaming in the sunshine, pulled up to curb. His dad was slamming out of the driver's seat, vaulting around the hood of the car, his hand soon resting on Dean's shoulder.

His father's expression shifted from concern to impatience as the nurse explained Sam's coughing jag. Even without the ability to speak Sam managed to piss off his dad.

The nurse coaxed him out of the wheelchair and settled him into the back seat. Dean smoothly slid in next to him and Sam wanted to protest; Dean lived for riding shotgun, sitting next to their dad, bull-shitting with him. And Sam just wanted a little space. He appreciated how attentive his family had been to him while he was stuck in the hospital but he really craved a moment's peace. The mother-henning was making him feel like more of a loser than he already did.

Dean was cocooning him in a blanket and Sam tried to shake it off, he wasn't an invalid. Only his energy had drained away and it took everything he had to remain upright. His dad and Dean were speaking but rest beckoned and the gentle buzz of their words lulled him to sleep.

The Jack kicked him in the side of the head and Sam found himself on his back, as helpless as an overturned turtle. "Boy, you are incompetent. No wonder your family attempted to banish you. If you were my offspring, I would have taken you to the river and drowned you long ago."

The Jack's red eyes morphed into John Winchester's dark brown, the hand around his neck squeezing. "You're a failure, Sam. Your mother would be so disappointed in you. I know Dean is. What am I supposed to do with you? The family would be better off without you…"

Sam startled, his body tensing.

A dream. It was just a dream.

The Impala had rocked to a stop and his brother and dad were talking again.

"I don't know, Dad. He doesn't do anything except sleep. And wheeze. Maybe the hospital should have kept him."

Dean's voice was tinged with impatience. Sam was not only letting down his dad but his brother, too.

"See if you can wake him up. We'll get him inside, make sure he's comfortable."

His dad's low voice was gruff. Weary. Sam had done this to his family, worn them down. His stupid suggestions. His pathetic shortcomings. Dean wouldn't need to be coddled like this. Dean wouldn't have screwed up so bad in the first place. Dean never would have been given an easy hunt for training. Dean never would have been sent back to the car.

But Sam had. Sam was that kid. And now they were all paying the price because of it.

He wanted to apologize but he was disconnected from his body. His brain sent the order to his mouth to open, to his vocal cords to work, but nothing happened. Tears of frustration leaked down his face.

"Come on, Sam, we're home. Time to wake up." A hand tangled in his hair and the surface he'd been leaning against shifted. "Shit, Dad, he's crying. And he won't open his eyes."

_Do something_ was the implied message in his brother's voice. Do something right, do something brave. Man up, take the punches and roll with them. They didn't have time for this kind of crap. They never did. Sam shouldn't even be here. He didn't deserve to be here. Even when he tried, made his best efforts, it ended up like this. He was a fuck-up. Hadn't the fiasco with the Jack proven it?

Strong arms hauled him out of the car and when his legs refused to hold him up, he found himself airborne, held aloft. Everything hurt. His head, his neck, his heart.

He was being carried and the motion made him dizzy. He found himself deposited on a lumpy surface. "Sam, damn it, open your eyes. You're worrying your brother."

That sent his eyelids to blinking, first slowly and then furiously as he tried to clear his vision. He knew that voice, and he had to obey it or else.

Dean's face, twisted with some emotion Sam couldn't read, swam into view. "Sammy, you okay?"

Sam managed to nod, his neck protesting the motion.

Dean was trying to grin, but it was a far cry from his usual cocky smile. His father was even putting out some effort, keeping his voice soft and easy, but it was all wrong. Sam had wanted to prove his independence, to gain a little freedom, and instead had been reduced to a needy little kid again and all Sam could think was that his dad had been right all along.

They were talking, to him, about him, over his head, whatever. It was like a typical family discussion. Dean and his dad, making the decisions, figuring out the hard stuff, and Sam was just along for the ride.

He'd always just be along for the ride.

After more discussion swirled around him, he was finally allowed to drift off again.

Somehow sleeping forever didn't seem like such a bad idea. At least maybe in his dreams he wouldn't disappoint his family.

-0-

Dean had known that Sam's first few days home would be hard. He just hadn't expected them to be so damn traumatic. For everyone.

All his little brother seemed capable of was sleep. Sure, he'd known Sammy had a lot of healing to do but this--his brother's inability to keep his eyes open and clear for more than five minutes at a time--was driving Dean out of his mind with worry.

His little brother was always in motion, always thinking, always questioning. That was before. Now he lounged passively wherever Dean plunked him down. Bed, couch, once even the front step. But that exciting foray had been short-lived when coughs consumed Sam's slight frame. Dean had felt so guilty about it that he'd scooped the kid up and taken him back inside where they had stayed cooped up ever since.

On top of Sam's newfound sleepiness, his younger brother's voice had gone silent despite the staff's assurances that he was physically able to talk.

Was it willful disobedience or was Sam still sick? Dean couldn't tell, but he was tired of coaxing, baiting and pushing his brother to wake up, talk, do something.

Dean was worried, yes, but more than that, he was bored. He'd thought having Sam home meant things were back to normal. Not that normal was all that great these days. His dad and Sam locked in some heated contest of wills, Dean playing peacemaker on the sidelines. Being the middle-man wasn't Dean's idea of a good time, but right now, he would have taken it gladly. Because now Sam refused to engage on any level, and for all of the times he'd wished Sam would just shut up, go with the flow, this was the worst time ever for him to clam up.

Because Sam's silence only made their father's silence that much more on edge. Like they were all waiting for someone to say something first, to break the stalemate between them. Someone _had _to. They had to talk about what had happened--about the hunt, the training, the Jack--or they'd be stuck in this endless loop of silence and anger and pain until Dean freakin' lost his mind.

After all, he'd already reread every skin mag in his stash and with their dad around 24/7, he wasn't exactly getting a lot of chances to go replenish.

"Dean," his dad's voice came from the doorway.

Dean jumped, fumbling awkward to bury his magazine discreetly from his father's view, wondering briefly if he could pass it off as Sam's, even though the kid was zonked out on the couch next to Dean.

His father took pity on him and ignored the magazine, putting a steaming bowl on the coffee table. "Wake him up. I've got soup, it's tomato, you said that's his favorite. Make sure he eats it all. The kid is nothing but skin and bones."

Jumping to do his dad's bidding, Dean put a hand on his reclining brother's shoulder and exerted slow, steady pressure. "Sammy, dinner time. You have to eat."

Clouded eyes peaked at Dean through barely slitted eyelids as their father retreated back to the kitchen.

Dean leaned closer, trying to meet Sam's glazed eyes. "Come on, you've slept long enough. Get up."

He'd used his best imitation Marine voice and it seemed to work, although Dean felt mean watching his brother climb to wakefulness, awkwardly pushing himself to a sitting position. But he'd quickly learned that being nice meant Sam continued to sleep and if he didn't get some food down his brother soon, he was afraid they'd have to take him back to the hospital. Although right now, with the way Sam squinted up at him, eyes dazed, his skin pale, the hospital might not be such a bad idea. At least they knew how to take care of Sam there. Between his crappy nursemaid skills and their dad's gruff bedside manner, they didn't seem to be doing such a hot job.

Picking up the bowl, Dean ladled a spoon full and held it in the air, waiting for it to cool sufficiently. Sorry that things had come to this, seeing Sam so weak and defenseless, Dean nevertheless shoved the spoon to his brother's lips, willing him to eat.

Sam tentatively accepted the offering but his look of gratitude twisted into one of revulsion as he backpedaled away from Dean, clutching at his bandaged neck.

Dean reached out, trying to protect the precarious bowl of soup. "Dude, chill," he said. "You have to eat this. Even if I have to sit on you and force feed you, you're going to finish this bowl."

Dean ruthlessly jabbed a spoon full of the red concoction at Sam's mouth, the back of the kid's head trapped against the couch. Tears trickled from those large, doe-like eyes but Dean hardened his heart; if Sam didn't get some sustenance he was never going to recover.

The most pathetic choking and wheezing noises escaped from Sam and they were loud enough to bring his dad sprinting back into the living room from the kitchen. "What the hell is wrong with him now?"

Dean caught the underlying worry in his dad's strident tone but Sam cowered against the cushion. "I don't think he wants the soup. And I tried, but I just can't make him, not when he's like this."

His dad kneeled down in front of Sam, capturing his face between his two large hands, locking it in place. "Sam, you need to knock this shit off. Eat the damn soup."

The wheezing noises Dean had written off as Sam trying to manipulate him, avoid eating, penetrated his brain. Sam was talking--or trying to, anyway. "Please…no…acid."

Sam's voice grated despite its lack of volume. Dean shook his head; he didn't understand what Sam was trying to communicate. This was worse than when Sam was toddler and Dean chanted nothing but 'use your words' when his brother had meltdown after meltdown, unable to convey what he wanted in his limited toddler mentality. Needless to say, it had been more than slightly frustrating for both of them, and Dean couldn't say that this attempt at communication was working too much better for them.

Apparently it wasn't so mysterious to their dad, however. "Shit, I'm sor…Dean, go get his pain killer. The tomato is too acidic for Sam's throat, probably felt like lava pouring past that wound."

His dad rarely barked at him and he rose swiftly to his feet, eager to appease him. And then it hit him – the tomato soup, much beloved by his brother, was like acid on that poor abused throat.

And Dean had forced it on his brother. Even when Sam had clearly tried to refuse.

His brain shut down, unable to process that he'd actually hurt his brother. It was like choking Sam out accidentally although this time Sam wasn't bounding to his feet, proclaiming that he was fine. No, this time Sam was scrunched into the corner of the couch, trying to evade their comforting touches.

On autopilot, Dean retrieved the small bottle of liquid codeine from the kitchen. When he returned to the living room it was to find Sam curled on his dad's lap, quivering, while the usually stern and stoic man ran a comforting hand up and down Sammy's back, whispering softly.

Apologizing. His dad never apologized.

Dean promptly unscrewed the cap and filled the dropper, squeezing out the excess until he had the correct dose. "More, Dean."

Without argument, Dean refilled the dropper until one and a half of the recommended dose remained. He handed it over to his dad who adjusted the pliant Sam until he could easily put the drops of codeine into Sam's mouth. Only his dad's hand shook so much, he was in danger of missing the intended target.

Seeing his dad like this, shaking, hit Dean hard. John Winchester always knew what to do, always remained strong. He'd passed out in the hospital but that was probably just as much from dehydration as it was from worry.

The medicine finally made it to Sam's lips. His little brother turned his head aside, mutely declining the liquid, straining away from the arms holding him.

This time no one scolded him.

His dad's eyes lifted and made contact with Dean's, filled with remorse.

Sam may have been the one with a crushed larynx and a hole in his neck, but this was an injury they were all struggling to recover from and Dean wasn't sure they'd ever get there.

-0-

John looked in the living to find Sam awake, staring blankly at the TV, the volume turned all the way down. It had been a week since he and Dean had ravaged Sam's tender throat with tomato soup and although no one was truly to blame, he still felt like crap.

He'd always prided himself on knowing what was best for both sons but looking at his youngest now, limbs lax, face expressionless, he was left with an intense feeling of ineptitude.

John had tried enticing Sam out of his shell by decreeing he would get Sam's homework or books from the library. Sam had merely stared at John, a solemn look in his eyes that made John feel worse just for asking. Getting his son to eat enough was a constant struggle but vanilla shakes, oatmeal and chicken broth had been delicately consumed in at least enough quantity to assure John that his baby wasn't going to waste away. Eliciting a smile from the kid wasn't happening, at least not on his watch. And Sam's voice had seemingly disappeared; the only time he made noise was when he was deep in the throes of a nightmare, and the mewls of pain were enough to drive John to drink.

In short, Sam was behaving in a very unSam-like manner. And to think he would ever miss Sam's constant barrage of questions, his incessantly impractical desire to do homework, or even Sam's somewhat off-kilter insights to the hunt. Truth was, this strange behavior had both Dean and John at wit's end. He'd even resorted to finding errands for Dean to run to give him a break. Right now he was at the store, restocking on the things Sam would swallow down.

Something was wrong with Sam. Something John didn't know how to even begin to identify, much less fix. He needed help, but there was no help to be had. Somewhere in his bedroom he had the hospital discharge instructions on Sam. Maybe they held a clue. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten about them but he'd pretty much been in a daze the day they'd left, relieved that at least Sam was well enough to leave. And he'd been so certain that since Sam was being cleared, that he'd bounce right back. That soon John could up his training regimen and whip him into shape in a much safer and perhaps gentler manner.

He shuffled through the drawer in the particle board nightstand next to his bed – if it wasn't there, then he'd thrown it out. Or left it at the pharmacy when he'd dashed in to get Sammy's liquid codeine. He didn't know where it was, he only knew it wasn't here. And losing it felt like just one more failure in a long list he'd made since the whole Spring Heeled Jack hunt had come up.

And then he remembered; he'd stuffed the instructions deep into the inside pocket of his jacket. Within seconds, he had it in his grasp, smoothing out the crinkles, and was frantically scanning it. _Keep the wound on his neck dry and covered and apply_…yeah, John knew that stuff. Here: _symptoms of post concussive syndrome include headache, inability to focus, memory problems, noise sensitivity, irritation, anxiety and depression_. Huh. He read the list of symptoms again.

John had been so rattled by the injury to Sam's throat that he'd somehow forgotten about the concussion. And his young son certainly had shown problems in most of the areas listed. So Sam was coming along fine, he and Dean had just been trying to rush the kid along on his recovery.

He'd been thinking he needed to find a way to snap Sam out of this funk before he managed to completely derail the family unit when in fact the family needed to cut Sam some slack.

He'd gone so far as to announce that Sam was no longer allowed to nap, thinking he was just trying escape his responsibilities. If he'd thought about it, he'd have known that was wrong; Sam was all about responsibility – his homework, his classes, his research, even his family. Just not the hunt.

Even now, Sam was doing his best to live up dutifully to the requests John was putting before him. Eating when he was required to do so, sitting up when John suggested it, even keeping his eyelids peeled as per his father's orders. Sam was trying, maybe even harder than before, and John just didn't know how to see it.

That seemed to be a common problem when it came to his youngest. He and Sam simply didn't speak the same language. So alike in their determination at times, equally bull-headed, but it was like sometimes they were coming at life from totally different angles. John wanted Sam to get his head in the game, but Sam was just finding a different game entirely to get his head into.

Patience, then. He'd sent Sam to the car prematurely with the Jack, and that was a mistake he couldn't afford to make again.

Crossing over to the couch, John picked up the remote and turned the TV off. It took a moment but Sam blinked and then turned a questioning look John's way. "You're looking a little pale there, kiddo." John said with a fair approximation of a grin. "I think you need more rest. Couch or bed?"

Stunned was the best description for the expression on Sam's face and John felt an inch high. Neither he, nor Dean who followed his lead, asked Sam what he wanted; they just posed his body where they wanted it and barked instructions at him.

Sam awkwardly pushed himself to his feet, a tentative smile on his face. "Bed's fine," he said. Then, after a moment, he added. "Thanks, Dad."

The words were so softly spoken that for a moment John thought he'd imagined them. Sam had talked to him. Slightly garbled and full of grit but he'd made himself heard.

John squeezed Sam's shoulder as he shuffled past, earning himself another shocked look from his son.

And if that didn't make John feel sorry, then nothing would.

But what was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to apologize for not getting it? For not knowing how to help? There was still a hunt, and there was still a need for Sam to readjust his priorities, but John didn't know how to open himself up to the possibility that Sam would get there in his own way.

And he certainly didn't know how to accept the possibility that Sam had been trying the entire week. The endless sparring had to be hard on any kid in the flux of growth spurts and who spent most of his time cramped in the back seat of a car. The endless research may have seemed old hat to John, but Sam was making those connections for the first time. And as out of nowhere as Sam's observations were, they'd been right in the end.

More than that, he couldn't forget the Jack's taunting voice, daring Sam to give in, practically giving his son every opportunity to cave. Sam had shown no fear. Just like John had ordered.

But John Winchester didn't do apologies. He couldn't do apologies. Because if he started with one, he might just have to admit them all, and after sixteen years, he wasn't sure he could do that just yet.

-o-

Lying on his back, he could feel the dull throb of blood pulsing in his temples. He cracked his eyes open to find Dean, mossy green eyes wide and panicky, hovering over him with deep concern.

Déjà vu. Maybe Dean had tried out one of his submission holds again and Sam had grayed out.

The calmness of the moment shattered as crimson sparks shot out of Dean's eyes.

His brother's lips parted, a mockery of a smile, and blue flames leapt into the air inches from Sam's face. Sam's eyes closed involuntarily as the intense heat swept over his head. The smell of singed hair permeated the air.

Sharp nails clutched at his arms, shaking him so hard he could feel his brain shift.

Strength wrapped around his neck, suffocating.

Sam clawed at the pressure around his throat as it squeezed relentlessly.

"Jesus, Sam, wake up!"

The words, spoken right in his ear, startled Sam. His body jerked once, twice, in response.

His pulse thundered in his ears, his eyes snapping open.

Dean was hovering over him, his face inches from his own.

Sam gasped even as his brother scrambled back, shock on his face. His brother was still speaking but Sam couldn't hear him; he was too busy trying to figure out if he was still dreaming or what was going on.

"…gave me a heart attack…I'll get you some water…"

Only a dream. Sleep, the one thing he could count on in his life at the moment, was turning against him.

Since his dad had lifted the ban on naps, sleep was about the only thing that could make his day better.

Not that it was always like that, or that it normally was. Sam had never been as fond of sleep as his brother had. For him, there was always something to do, something to learn, something to figure out. His dreams had been plagued with nightmares as long as he could remember, and even his brother's best doting could only handle so many nights of comfort.

So Sam had resorted to reading when it got too bad, drawn up under the covers with a flashlight to keep him company and a book to fill his mind.

That was how he'd read his father's journals. And it was how he managed to still read novels despite the constant books of supernatural lore his dad threw his way these days.

But these days, his body was tired. Worn out and old. Besides, the books he so loved, the ones he enjoyed and coveted and hide under his bed and in the bottom of his duffle, they seemed sort of pointless now. Just like his homework, his school, his desire to prove himself.

Not that he still didn't want those things, because he did. He just didn't know how to get them.

It had been Mr. Wyatt who told him he could do anything he wanted. That the family business wasn't all there was. Sam had clung to that for the last two years and it had been the only thing to make him happy. That possibility, that hope for something more. It gave his life a new meaning.

Not that Dean had understood. He hadn't even tried to tell his dad.

He had thought he could do both. Pursue his dreams, keep reading under the covers, and still be part of his father's army.

He was wrong.

He couldn't do both. The hunt demanded too much. His father demanded too much. With his attentions divided, he didn't do either thing well. While he could afford a bad grade in a class, nearly getting killed on a hunt was not quite as easy to get past.

Snuggling deeper beneath his covers, he waited for Dean to return with the family's panacea, a glass of water. It was the remedy for upset stomachs, headaches and apparently nightmares. It was as much of a steady presence in the household as avoidance. The way his dad danced around the fact Sam had ended up injured because he wasn't up to snuff. The way Dean hovered, the unspoken thought that Sam couldn't take care of himself. But for all the negatives he could easily tick off, chief among them how crappy he felt at the moment and that he only had himself to blame for it, maybe this wasn't so bad.

Maybe training wasn't as mind-numbing as he thought. Maybe the hunt didn't have to be quite as soul-sucking as he'd let himself believe. Maybe if he tried harder, maybe if he took a page from Dean's book and played the good son, it would be better. Maybe he wouldn't screw up. Maybe he wouldn't get himself hurt so badly. Maybe he wouldn't feel so scared of it all the time.

Maybe his father would give sometimes if Sam obeyed more. Maybe he'd get to take a nap, maybe his father would start asking what he wanted.

Maybe it could make him happy.

His body was coming down from its adrenaline high, relaxing, and he tried not to think about the school he was missing or the half finished copy of Beowulf still tucked under his mattress. He tried not to think about the look of disappointment in his father's eyes or the easy way Dean could beat him in every sparring match they'd ever had. And he really tried not to think about the fiery eyes of the Jack and the feel of blue fire on his skin and the claws scratching around his neck.

No, instead he tried to think about the chicken broth his father made just the way he liked it and the way Dean let them watch the Discovery Channel even if he joked it was just for the animals getting jiggy with it. He tried to think about his father asking him what he wanted, the couch or the bed, and tried not to think about how maybe he didn't want either after all.

And sleep came to Sam, warm and cold all at once, as he tried to be okay with the fact the day probably wasn't going to get any worse, but it certainly wasn't going to get any better, either.

The End

A/N – Sendintheclowns: Hopefully you, and Nebula, enjoyed the Spring Heeled Jack show. Thank you for reading if you stuck with this through to the bitter end. I want to thank our fabulous beta crew one more time – Gidgetgal9, BlueEyedDemonLiz and Floralia…you guys make the writing process enjoyable. And thanks to Faye Dartmouth for putting up with me – you're one in a million!


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